


Stroke

by zizi_west



Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: 1960s, Afro-Caribbean character, Black British, Black Character(s), British Character, Canon Character of Color, F/M, Female Character of Color, Female Friendship, Female-Centric, Interracial Relationship, Nurses, Original Character(s), Out of Canon, POV Female Character, Romance, Working Class
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-05
Updated: 2017-12-29
Packaged: 2018-03-05 11:03:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 30,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3117803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zizi_west/pseuds/zizi_west
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On their first date, she asked Endeavour Morse: "It's full time with you, isn't it?" Nurse Monica Hicks also thinks about her job while she's off duty - especially after the well-to-do victim of a suspicious car accident arrive at the hospital where she works. Find out what she and the detective, who is learning more about his emotions and himself, do after hours.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**STROKE**

 

A Monica Hicks/Endeavour Morse fanfiction story

Author: Zizi West

Word count: 5,852

 _Disclaimer:_ I do not own these characters and do not profit from them. Story content & style are all mine.

 Warnings: Sexuality, social realities

 

**Chapter One:  High and Low**

 

“Odd git, Morse,” the policeman on desk duty said under his breath, scowling as the long-limbed  detective first knocked a sheaf of papers to the floor, then carefully re-stacked and squared it up in a wire basket, clearing his desk before leaving for the day.

 

 A younger policeman, on the force for less than a year, overheard. “May be odd, but he's not stupid.”

 

“And how would you know, Parry?” demanded the policeman. “You've hardly been here five minutes. Check behind your ears to see if they're completely dry, mate.”

 

Blushing, the junior officer persisted. “He seems to know how to find what others miss, sort things out. Solve puzzles. Notices what others don't see.”

 

Endeavour Morse stepped back from his desk. At least they'd lowered their voices during this latest deconstruction of his character. No matter. In seconds he'd be out of the building and striding back to his flat.

 

Pub? Not tonight. Detective Inspector Thursday had left police headquarters early to attend to a family matter, and the prospect of sitting in the pub without the older man's conversation didn't appeal. Morse had little to add to discussions of sport and quickly wearied of listening to other men drone on about the female sex as though they were a dimwitted yet threatening alien species. Why listen to that tosh when he could be in the warm, living presence of a rather lovely woman? Monica had left him a note that morning to tell him that she'd be home early, free for a few precious hours from the strenuous rotations of her hospital work schedule. Endeavour had kept the small square of smooth light blue paper with her neat, clear handwriting. His fingertips brushed against it now as he checked his trouser pocket for his keys.

 

“Leaving, earlier than usual, Morse?” Parry asked.

 

            “Yes...a few things to see to. Good evening.” Nodding at Parry and the desk officer, Morse left, buttoning his overcoat as he went.

 

            “Probably needs a 'seeing to' _himself_. That might sort him out,” muttered the policeman at the desk.

 

            “He's not bloody likely to get any,” one of the constables said dryly. “I doubt Morse has much of a way with the ladies.”

 

            “Absolutely hopeless,” the other man agreed. “Pity he never studied _that._ There are some things a university lecture can't teach you.”

 

…

 

The Vespa 150 VBB scooter buzzed more than it purred, then made a low _clunk_ sound as though its two-stroke engine felt dissatisfied _About time I took you in to the repair shop, dear thing,_ Monica Hicks thought.

 

Vibrations moved up through the well-sprung scooter seat to her hipbones as she drove over smoother sections of tarmac. If only those vibrations would reach her aching lower back! She knew about various vibrating massage devices said to ease tension and bring relief to parts of the body -- including some rather private places -- but they were expensive and she felt shy about buying one at the chemist’s, where everyone knew her. Well managed as the hospital was, staff provisions didn't include  physiotherapy equipment provided to help staff recover from a long and busy shift. 

 

Braking, Monica paused at an intersection while pedestrians crossed.  She listened carefully to the idling engine, noting a sharp, high tone. Students and full-time Oxonians moved past, some nicely dressed as though anticipating social events. Waiting gave her a moment to flex and rotate one ankle, then the other. 

 

She'd been on her feet much of the day: making her assigned rounds, bending, stretching, and helping the groggy victim of a car accident when emergency staff had been shorthanded. Two strong orderlies got him onto an examination table just before the man, redolent of sweat and alcohol, vomited. Monica and Patience, a junior nurse who often worked with her, rushed to clean the patient up as the attending doctor glared impatiently. 

 

 “Sorry to ruin your suit, sir, but it’s so we can help you more quickly,”  Monica said as she used scissors to cut through the patient’s fine wool trousers and jacket, both stained with blood.  The man groaned an unintelligible response. As his jacket came away she fleetingly noticed the smooth hand of the fabric, the flat seams and crisp tailoring, but her real concern lay with the injuries beneath.  _Toff or working man, they all bleed alike_ , she thought.

 

“Nurse! Can’t you get his shirt off faster?” the doctor said irritably.

 

Monica kept her voice level. “Sorry, Doctor Amies.” Holding the scissors in an open position, Monica sliced up and along the grain of the fabric so that she could pull it away in large pieces. It was a technique she’d used when cutting cloth to sew. She peeled away the man's bloody shirtfront and dropped it into a bin with his other ruined clothing.

 

“No...look, that girl...” The man kept trying to speak, gesturing weakly with his right hand. As she usually did with agitated patients, Monica tried to say soothing, meaningless things. “Easy there, sir. Soon this will be over.” 

 

“She...right here. Don't let her...” the man groaned. Monica's breath caught and her shoulders tensed. Certain patients openly questioned Monica's cleanliness, training, and abilities, or insisted that her voice was too loud while they demanded a 'real English' nurse.  Locking eyes with Patience, Monica stepped aside and they began a familiar routine. Monica would clean her hands to prevent cross-contamination, then continue to work side-by-side while the brunette, gray-eyed Patience stood working in the person's line of vision. Usually the complaints stopped as a result. Neither of the women  liked bending to racial prejudice, but this was an emergency.

 

Suddenly the man's eyes opened fully and he locked eyes with Monica. “Please, miss...careful. One of you --” his face went slack as he fainted.

 

Patience moved forward with a disinfectant-soaked sponge in her hand to clean off the blood and uncovered a long gash. “He's been stabbed!” she cried.

 

“Useless – move!” Dr. Amies shoved both nurses aside and took over. Monica flinched, hurt more by the implication that she worked badly than by his knobbly elbows. Patience glared at the back of Dr. Amies' head, mouthing an impolite, silent insult. If Amies hadn't been a doctor, Patience might have said a few words with a bite much sharper than the disinfectant used in Accident and Emergency. The junior nurse was nice enough to Monica, but her ready temper was at odds with her name.

 

Monica cleaned up and resumed working.  Dr. Amies continued to curse and bark commands, but she respected his skill.  Quickly, the doctor ensured that death was not imminent.

 

Like the man's shirt, the jacket was a loss. A strong smell of alcohol still clung to the clothes. Monica spread the contents of his pockets out on a square of paper before wrapping them into a parcel, writing down the contents on a form: one small comb, a few coins, a wallet made from smooth leather. Nothing inside the wallet identified him, as all it contained were a few high denomination pound notes.  Stabbed, but not robbed?  Frowning, she slid a finger into a nearly hidden interior pocket of the wallet and withdrew a business card edged with gold.

_Club Crastino_

_in flagrante delicto_

_compos sui_

A telephone number and small image of a laughing face with horns on its head appeared below the text. There were no bloodstains on the card. Monica paused, frowning. Before Dr. Amies pushed her aside, she'd had seen enough of the wound to know that it angled down, a long, angry slash. Neither his jacket nor his shirt were torn. Why would someone put on their clothes – _nice_ clothes – over a bloody wound and get into a car?  Had the man hoped to conceal the injury until he reached a safe place?

None of it was any of her business, but she couldn't help thinking of Endeavour and the inevitable inquiries from the police. It was possible that Dev would never have anything to do with this situation; the patient wasn't even dead.  However, he certainly hadn't stabbed _himself_.

...

Now, as Monica released the scooter's brake and motored on, she wondered about the patient and how he'd come to such misfortune. The cut of his charcoal gray suit looked too conservative to mark him as a bar owner or vendor of goods, legal or otherwise. Professor, researcher, businessman, foreign visitor?  Knife wounds before a car accident seemed unusual. Had someone robbed him, or was it a crime of passion?

 

Dev, as she affectionately called Endeavour Morse, might have seen similar cases while at work, but he so often thought about work while at home. She shouldn't ask him.

 

Still, she was curious.

 

…

 

Morse glanced around his small flat.  The leaves of the potted plant looked recently watered. When had his few mismatched plates stacked themselves by size?  Even his lone serving dish, glass edged with cheap, thin silver plate, shone as though ready for an elegant dinner.

 

 _Monica_.

 

She’d set things to rights with her usual quiet cheerfulness and he’d only just now noticed. Perhaps she'd done it over the weekend between shifts at the hospital. Despite his absorption with work and occasional inattention, Monica remained caring and kind, her efforts largely unacknowledged.  The pretty nurse carried so many more keys on her ring than he did on his own – her own flat's key, her Vespa key, a key resembling the kind used for small household lock boxes, a key to the flat of family in London, and now a spare key to Morse's own flat.

 

Pensive, Morse rubbed the back of his neck. What had he done to reciprocate? On more than one occasion Fred Thursday had offered unsolicited advice on how to keep women happy. During visits to the Thursday home, Endeavour observed how the many small kindnesses Fred extended to Mrs. Thursday led to a feeling of comfort for the entire family.  Pity that he wasn't good at imitating such an effective method. He should try harder.

 

Endeavour had carefully told Thursday little about Monica. Not her full name, certainly not where she lived, but the older man's understanding of human nature was keen. 

 

“So she's nice, your young lady?”  Thursday asked without preamble, during one evening at the pub.

 

Endeavour blushed, but managed not to spill his pint.  “V-very.”

 

“Good. Be sure to tell her _ahead_ of time when you've got days off,” Thursday said, and then allowed Morse to change the subject.

…

 

“Ooh!” Painful tension had settled in to Monica's lower back.  Stretching and twisting didn't help enough, nor had the warm shower she’d taken. Shouting doctors, blood, the mistrust of patients – she ought to be used to it by now, but it wasn't easy to let go of all of it some days. 

 

…

 

Morse was sometimes awkward when he attempted big gestures: trying to impress a woman with his choice of wine at dinner, giving her the right sort of flowers. The way he'd offered Monica his coat had more the coaxing friendliness of a country boy rather than the smooth words of a chivalrous knight, and he'd been surprised when his action lowered the last barriers to frank desire.  Perhaps his courtship wasn't always smooth but he could try to do small things well.  At least he remembered how she liked her tea.  Perhaps he could help her maintain her scooter before he borrowed it again, help move furniture in her flat, do things men were supposed to do.

 

 _Where was she?_ He'd heard her keys jingling nearly an hour earlier, but hadn't yet heard Monica's quiet knock on his door – she always knocked before entering, although she'd given her his spare key.  Usually she took time for herself after work, changing out of her nurse's uniform, performing some sort of private feminine magic before he opened the door to see her serene, wearing her own clothes, her face tilted up for his kiss.  Endeavour locked his own door behind him and crossed the hallway. 

…

 

Monica exhaled as she leaned down to touch her toes, hoping to relax enough to enjoy Dev's company for a few hours. Another night in with the phonograph would be cozy, but she wished that he'd go to the cinema with her instead, or to agree to take her to one of the more affordable concerts at the weekend. London offered more choices for entertainment, but that was only a daydream. Hotels were expensive and the idea of having a man – detective or not –  sleeping under the same roof with their unmarried daughter would send even the most worldly of her family into an apoplexy.

 

Perhaps she should set her alarm and have a short kip with a hot water bottle nestled against the small of her back. Sighing, Monica wrapped a towel around herself just as a knock sounded at the door.

 

...

 

No sound came from her flat. Morse frowned. As his knuckles hovered above the door, Mrs. Tweed, one of the other neighbors turned the corner from the stairway and walked towards him.  Her footsteps halted when she saw her blond neighbor outside Monica's door. 

 

“Yes, hello?” Monica said, her voice muffled by the wood.

 

“Mon – ah, Miss Hicks, it's Morse.”  He made eye contact with the neighbor as she paused in front of her own flat, two doors down.  “Good evening, Mrs. Tweed,” he said loudly.

 

The woman stared at him with open curiosity.  “And a good evening to to you, too.”  She raised both eyebrows. “Nowt wrong, is there?”

 

“No trouble at all,” he replied firmly. Mrs. Tweed lingered, dithering with her handbag and keys.

 

Monica quickly understood his formality as a caution.  “Just a moment, Mr. Morse.”  Her voice sounded prim, as though she were answering a phone call at work. When Monica opened the door, Endeavour began speaking right away.  “Sorry to bother you, Miss Hicks.” He tilted his head slightly to the right.

 

Monica wore an unfastened dressing gown thrown hurriedly over a towel; Endeavour's eyes widened appreciatively, and a corner of his mouth titled up. Monica pressed her lips together, trying not to laugh.

 

Keys jingled two doors down as Mrs. Tweed fumbled with her door and pretended not to watch and listen.  Endeavour's eyes narrowed; he crossed his arms and turned his head to look down the hall.

 

“Problem, Mrs. Tweed?”

 

“No!” Mrs. Tweed cleared her throat. Suddenly the lock worked perfectly enough for her to dash inside and slam her door.

 

Endeavour and Monica stifled their laughter as she let him in, closing the door against the world. Just as it had been the first time he'd briefly stepped inside, Monica's flat was tidier and more sparsely furnished than his own.

 

 _Each of us spends more time at work than at home_ , Endeavour thought. Monica didn't wear shoes inside her own flat, so he removed his own without being asked.  A Pan Am airline calendar, a poster from a concert series in London, and a few framed photographs hung on two walls.  Some of the photographs were of Black people of various ages: family in and outside England. Larger photographs showed three different groups of nurses: one group mostly West Indian women and one woman who looked Indian; the second all White English women except for Monica; the third, all White English women aside from Monica and a few other Black women. All were photos from Monica's training courses or workplaces. Endeavour kept a lone image of his father inside an envelope. He had no photographs of Monica.

 

Endeavour noticed the hopeful tilt of Monica's chin and leaned down for a kiss.  “Are you all right?”

 

“I’m just tired, and my back hurts enough to make me wish that I’d stayed at work and sneaked into one of the hydrotherapy tubs. Do you think that Mrs. Tweed knows about us?”

 

“I don't care if she does. This is Britain and we're both past the age of consent. Lie down; I'll rub your back.”

 

“Massage is among your many talents?” Monica raised both eyebrows, but found an extra towel and spread it over the bed.

 

“Not really, but I'll do my best for you.” Endeavour began to roll up his sleeves. “Tell me if it hurts and I'll stop.”

 

“Thank you, I see that I'm in for a rare treat. Please, turn the water up as warm as you can bear it while you're washing your hands,” she advised as she lay down. “That's what I do for patients before applying liniment or cream to bare skin.”

 

“Right,” he said, running his hands under the tap. The tiny bathroom smelled faintly of bleach, overlaid  with the sweet scents of cosmetic preparations and soap.

 

Her voice was soft, as though she'd begun to relax simply because he was there. “Look for the cream-coloured plastic bottle.”

 

Endeavour carried it over to the bed, glancing at the label as he sat down:  _Palmer's Skin Cream with Cocoa Butter._ Opening it, he poured a small amount of it into his palm to warm it, inhaling the chocolaty fragrance. “Mm. So that's how you keep yourself so delicious.”

 

Giggling, Monica raised her head to look at him. “It's nice to use on a winter morning. Makes you want to lick yourself.”

 

“Makes _me_ want to lick _you_.”  Endeavour spread the cream over her back, feeling her arch, stretch, then loosen up in response to his touch. He stroked her legs and thighs, pressing down; tiny groans escaped her throat, and he smiled. The cocoa butter made her already smooth skin feel like a satin dress he'd once touched, a dress worn by a different woman he'd been attracted to but hadn't gone very far with. He'd never touched her in the way that made this woman feel so good.

 

Morse warmed more cream in his hands and retraced the path of his hands, massaging her shoulders. “Where do you find this stuff?”

 

“London, whenever I make family visits,” Monica replied, her eyes half closed.

 

“Posh lady, with your London tastes...but then you can't always find what you need in Oxford, can you?”

 

“Observant gentleman.” Monica smiled. “African and Caribbean shops sell cocoa butter, hair preparations, properly tinted cosmetics from America,” she said. “Sometimes my cousin sends me parcels.” 

 

“That's kind. Must be nice to have people look after you.”  He pressed and stroked the muscles along her spine. The world must look very different to her in some ways, for all that she was English. As though sensing his thoughts, she changed the subject. “Cocoa butter is very good for the skin. Let me put some on you, Dev. Not that you aren't already delightful to hold on to.”

 

Endeavour grinned. “No one's ever called me _delightful_.”

 

“Ah, but they should do.” She stretched beneath his hands again, her hips undulating. “Mmm.”

 

Dev stopped breathing, swallowed and closed his eyes for a moment.  He undid a few shirt buttons and continued the massage, concentrating on her lower back.

 

“Ooh, yes, Dev...just like that. Mmm, thank you for all of this. I've been tense for hours.”

 

“Something unusual happen at the hospital today?”

 

Monica told him about the stabbed man, the brusque Dr. Amies, and her routine with Patience.

 

“Hmm. People should be grateful that the NHS exists. They're rude and ignorant. You wouldn't be at that hospital if you weren't qualified. How often do you do that race routine?”

 

“Less often than when I started in nursing, but more often than I'd like.  Really, now I'm not sure that it we needed the routine this time. I'm not sure _who_ that man meant by what he said before he fainted: 'One of you'. But before that he called me 'miss', respectfully, and told me to be careful.  Of what, I don't know. He may have been delirious. Maybe he meant West Indians? Or women?” She sighed. “Patients should just let me help them. Will that day ever come?”

 

“For some. Others will keep being suspicious,” Morse said. The movement of his hands slowed. “Stabbed, you said. How?”

 

“A long wound, down. As though someone held the knife like this.” Monica gestured. “Missed his lungs and heart, though it was on the left. He'll have very sore ribs too. Little risk of infection as of tonight; he should be able to go home in a few days. The police were informed, but no information about a missing person had been communicated to staff by the time I left.” She turned onto her side, modestly holding the towel over the front of her body. “Something's a bit off about this whole thing, if you ask me.  Do you think you'll be assigned this case? Whoever stabbed him didn't rob him; this man was still carrying five ten-pound notes.”

 

Dev frowned slightly. “What else? No cards, papers, identification?”

 

Monica rolled her eyes. “And to think that tonight of all nights, I thought to avoid talking about work with you! No identification, and he was drunk and in pain. Never told us his name, family to call, nothing. I only found one card, and that without a name.”

 

“Mm.” Endeavour's long fingers flexed, and he glanced around, then seized a small pad of blue notepaper from the bedside table. “Need a biro --”

 

Monica sighed, and pointed at a drawer in the table. Endeavour pulled out a pen and handed it to Monica with the paper.

 

“Please write down exactly what you saw on that card.”

 

Carefully, she drew a rectangle the size of the card, sketched the laughing devil's head, and wrote down all she could remember, hesitating at the last line.

 

“I'm not certain the telephone number is right, and there were more words – something Latin, not a medical term. The nuns at school taught us the Greek words in the Order of Service – _kyrie eleison –_ but we weren't taught much Latin.”

 

“Can you try anyway? I may recognize it.”

 

The pen moved across the little rectangle. _Flagrante delicio_ , _compos sui,_ she wrote, adding apologetically, “That's not it exactly.”

 

Dev made a sound that was, for him, close to a laugh. “ _In flagrante delicto,”_ he corrected gently. “It means to be caught in the act of committing an offense, that offense usually understood to be a sexual act. _Compos sui_ means 'having the use of one's limbs'. Doubtful that it's used in the legal sense here. Don't think one will find the Crastino Club in the telephone directory either. _Crastino_ , more Latin. Means tomorrow, or the day after.”

“Procrastinate,” Monica said.

“Exactly. The Tomorrow Club.”  Endeavour looked pensive. “How would you describe this man?”

 

“Fifty, perhaps. Hair barely greyed at the temples. Perhaps handsome under better circumstances. Life treated him well until tonight. Wealthy people often look...cared for, quite different to many people who come to our hospital.”

 

Dev's expression sobered. “Shouldn't wonder,” he said dryly. “How was this man when you left?”

 

“Resting quietly. The pain medication he'll be given may make him difficult to understand when you go in to talk to him as part of your investigation.”

 

“ _When?_ Monica, I may never have anything to do with this case, if there's enough to build a case at all.”

 

She wrapped the towel around herself and moved to sit on the edge of the bed. “Perhaps not. But you're already interested in this, and you won't let it go until you know more. May as well begin writing up your plan for the investigation.” She reached for her dressing gown. “Those are all of the details I've got, Detective Inspector. Thank you for the massage. Would you like tea?”

 

“'Ere now, take that off.”  Dev slid the sleeve off her shoulder. “What sort of masseur do you think I am, leaving a lady unsatisfied?”

 

“You're busy. I understand,” she shrugged. “No other member of my harem has a side job with the police. You're still my favorite.”

 

“Send the rest of your harem away on holiday.” Endeavour smiled as he coaxed her back into her original position on the bed.  “Yes, I was distracted. Never said that I was finished.” He pressed a kiss to her neck, then sucked her skin between his teeth, and Monica's toes curled.

 

“You’re so...smooth.” Endeavour’s hands wandered, not simply massaging now, but caressing her hips, shoulders, her belly, her legs. “Ah, Monica, I didn’t _know_.”

 

“Dev, you’ve touched my bare skin before.”

 

“We should save coins to leave the lights on. All of you is so beautiful.” His voice held a rare sound of raw yearning; Monica touched his face.

 

“I mean it. Beautiful here,” he leaned down to kiss her face, “here,” he continued, moving so that he could kiss her nipple, “and here too.”  Endeavour planted a slightly wetter kiss on to the place where her hip and thigh joined.

 

 “Also _here_ , though I won’t tell anyone.”  Turning her over, he gently bit the curve of one buttock, and she giggled. “When I finish rubbing your back, turn over and I’ll tell you what else I like.”

 

One hip tilted as she began to do just that, but his long fingers curled around her hip and held her in place.  “Just a moment, Miss.”

 

“Back to formal address? Aren’t you polite, saying ‘Miss’ while I’m undressed.”  Monica felt the mattress dip slightly as Endeavour rose up on his knees.

 

“Nude or not, you’re always a lady as I see it.”   White cloth flew over the side of the bed and landed on a chair - his shirt, followed immediately by another flash: his singlet.  Monica rolled onto her side and sat up, holding the towel at a tantalizingly low place over her cleavage. 

 

“Lay back down, woman,” he teased.

 

Monica’s gaze dropped to his waist as Endeavour stood at the foot of the bed, unfastening his trousers.  “What, and miss seeing this? Not me.”

 

A rosy flush spread across his face, neck, and chest, but Dev looked more pleased than embarrassed.  He pulled his trousers down over his hips, worked his feet free of his socks. The front of his shorts seemed barely able to contain him as his erection pressed against the thin cotton. Monica inhaled sharply, audibly. Dev's blush spread a little further, and she saw his chest rise and fall more quickly.

 

“Excited?” she asked quietly.

 

The raw sound returned to his voice. “For you.” 

 

She felt her own body opening, softening, her pulse racing. “Do you like being admired, Dev?”

 

Smiling, he nodded. Her fingers trembled as she clutched the towel, and her voice sounded unsteady in her own ears. “Do you like being wanted?”

 

Endeavour’s lips parted slightly; he drew in a shuddering breath. “Yes.”

 

Between her legs she felt slippery and full, almost aching. “Does it bother you that I like...what we do together...so much?”

 

His eyes widened with the earnest expression she’d become too fond of.  “No one else had touched me for a long time until you helped me, looked after my back. Almost no one touches me unless they mean  to give me a kicking. I _want_ you to touch me.” Endeavour moved closer. 

 

Monica lowered her feet to the floor and stood, tossing the towel onto the bed.  Endeavour pulled her close. She touched him everywhere she could reach. A slight tug on a handful of his hair; the pads of her fingers gliding along the planes of his cheekbones. Her lips brushed the hardness of his chest; her little finger traced a circle around his navel. When her hands reached the waistband of his boxer shorts her boldness faltered.

 

“Please,” Endeavour said, “if you want --”

 

Monica pressed her hands flat over his hips to stop their trembling. “It’s obvious, isn’t it, that I’ve never done this before? Undressed a man, I mean. Unless it was for work. Oh!” She fought the awkward flow of  words as she felt her face grow hot.  “I’m not being glamorous or seductive right now.”

 

“Really? I feel very well seduced.”  He smiled and kissed her. “Let's make it easier.” His warm fingertips slid over the backs of her hands, and together they moved the shorts out of the way and down his legs.

 

Endeavour reached for her hand. “I didn't come here tonight just for this,” he said, “if you're still worried.”

 

“This isn't why I let you in tonight,” Monica answered, which was only half true. She liked his company, yes. No part of her working day had prepared her to be standing nude and face to face with an equally nude Dev before she'd even had supper. Not that she objected.  She wanted him quite fiercely, in any way that she could have him. Even if they only lay in bed talking Monica wouldn't protest as long as she felt his skin touching hers.

 

But of course she wouldn't tell Dev any of that, despite his earlier reassurances. Perhaps a hundred years from now, women would speak honestly about their physical desires without fear that their behavior might later be turned against them. The men they wanted would accept their women's words, basking in them without judgment or worrisome fragments of ideas about what a decent woman wanted from a man. Until that day, she would look and touch and be careful.

 

As though reading her thoughts, Endeavour took the lead, wrapping his arms around her and kissing her deeply. Monica kissed him back, touching her tongue to his; goosebumps rose on her skin when he groaned in response. Within seconds the hardness poking at her belly made it difficult to maintain their embrace. Endeavour pulled away and lifted Monica into his arms, drawing a surprised squeal from her; she knew he had a wiry strength suited to his build, but she hadn't thought of him as the musclebound type who would carry her off.  Dev could be strong and passionate, and she was going to enjoy learning just how much.

 

“Let's leave the lights on,” he said. “I want to you to see every time I touch you.”

 

A _clunk_ sounded from the meter, plunging the room into darkness and prompting a disgusted grumble from Endeavour. “Or perhaps not.”

 

Monica kissed his cheek. “Put me down for a moment.”

 

Unwished-for cool air flowed over his body as she moved away into the room, which was faintly illuminated by moonlight and street light shining through a gap in the curtains. Endeavour heard a drawer opening and closing while he willed his erection not to go completely down. There was a scratch, the acrid smell of a safety match, and a candle flared to life. He saw the outline of her shoulders, her bare breasts, her hands as she placed a second candle into a candlestick and lit it.  Monica turned to face him in the golden light, and Endeavour felt himself stir back to life.

 

“Oh,” he said, and they reached for each other. It wasn't quite clear who pulled who down onto the bed first. 

…

 

“Rather nice, those candles. Nurses are prepared for anything,” Endeavour murmured against the rise of her breast, an hour later. The short nap he'd taken seemed to have recharged him; he wanted to be awake and talking to Monica.

 

“Hmm, not quite.” Monica played with his hair and idly stroked his shoulders in the dim light.  “Next time you come over, bring more...”  – she pushed her hips against his – “...you know.”

 

After her first time sleeping with Dev on Guy Fawkes Night, Monica had quietly purchased a box of condoms from one of the other nurses at work. The other nurse charged a markup when reselling the prophylactics to more bashful women, but Monica spent the few extra pence without complaint. She preferred to avoid being stared at in the local chemist's by other customers, some of whom might assume West Indian or African girls had hot blood and hotter physical inclinations. The nurses in the nearest family planning clinic knew her by sight, and none of Monica's jewelry could pass for a wedding ring. Morse had his own supply, but she wanted to keep a box in her own flat for spontaneous occasions such as this one.

 

Unfortunately, the condoms were only three to a pack. _Goodness!_ Never in her life had Monica imagined that she'd indulge her physical desires – and emotional desires too, if she were honest – so enthusiastically as she did with Dev.

 

Endeavour leaned on one elbow and blinked at her. “No, I don't know. Bring what?” he asked, all innocence.

 

“You know. More of _those_.” She pushed her hips against him again.

 

He wiggled his hips back. “Come on, say it.”

 

“Dev!”

 

He moved over her and settled between her thighs, smiling. “More what? You may have more of _this_ any time you like.”  Slowly, he rotated his hips, reminding her of the pleasure he could give with them. Monica felt herself opening to him again before she controlled her breathing and said, “Slow down, you randy fellow. We just used the last one in the pack.”

 

“I'll buy more tomorrow.” He dropped a kiss onto her forehead. “Would you like to go out? It's only seven-thirty.”

 

Before she could say anything, Monica's stomach growled. “Hear that? Your sensual abilities are so powerful that I've burned off everything I ate earlier today.”

 

Endeavour made a scoffing sound, but smiled anyway. “That's a yes, then. I'm taking you to dinner.” He hadn't taken her out often enough; here was another chance to prove himself. He kissed her breasts and belly as he left the bed, making her quiver and squirm before he stood up and began to put on enough clothing to decently return to his flat. Monica watched him with an expression he found difficult to read.

 

“I'll go wash up.” Endeavour pulled a coin from his trouser pocket and fed it into the meter; the lights came back on.  “Meet you in twenty minutes?”

 

Monica had donned her dressing gown again; the tension was gone from her shoulders and her hips swayed as she crossed the room to blow out the candles. Her small, knowing smile made her look both sensual and untouched, as calm as the Mona Lisa.

 

“Twenty-five,” she amended, blowing him a kiss. Endeavour pretended to catch it, making her giggle as he slipped out the door.

 

Endeavour Morse was still smiling when he leaned over the basin to wash his face. He was washed and dressed in twelve minutes. The remaining thirteen he spent writing notes on the case of the stabbed man in the well-cut suit.

 

#   #   #

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOTE: Monica's feelings and experiences – particularly with regard to race, sexuality and gender -- are intended to be generally representative of the social and cultural realities of the time, although obviously individual women's experiences varied. Morse, although not especially political, is intelligent and empathetic enough to want to know more about the woman he's spending time with, so it makes little sense for him to ignore or refuse to listen to what Monica tells him.
> 
> Although birth control was becoming more widely available in 1966, attitudes about unmarried women's sexuality changed slowly. Monica's most accessible options would have included The Pill, a cervical cap, and condoms. As a nurse with the NHS she would be well informed about how to get these for herself; however, her personal experiences and concerns about how she was perceived might have made her cautious about how and where she obtained birth control. In those times (and in our own time) a woman's personal behavior might still be linked to her professional life. 
> 
> In addition to various websites and digital publications, many excellent books about the historical experiences of Black British people are available. Please visit a local library or academic library to find out more; it takes more than a keyword search to find out some things!


	2. Living a Contradiction

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> STROKE  
> An Endeavour fanfiction story
> 
> NOTE: This story is an original work and does not adhere closely to Morse canon.   
> Warnings: impolite language; references to social realities.  
> Characters: Monica Hicks, OCs

**Chapter 2: Living a Contradiction**

All human beings have three lives: public, private, and secret.

Source: Gabriel Garcia Marquez, from _Gabriel García Márquez: a Life_

* * *

“The skirt’s  _this_ high. Just like they’re wearing ‘em in London,” Patience said, tracing an invisible hemline above her knee. “It’ll be a mini dress after I finish hemming it. Going to a birthday party on Saturday, and I want to be in fashion.” She exchanged a conspiratorial glance with Monica, her nursing colleague and friend.  The three other nurses seated around the staff lounge table smiled over their tea.

 

“Maybe give your boyfriend an eyeful, too,” drawled a nurse named Charity.

 “Patience, you temptress,” Monica teased, “you always say that Charlie’s a nice, churchgoing lad. He likes you for your mind and good character.”

 “Oh, he does! Wouldn’t bother with Charlie if he didn’t listen to me. The miniskirt’s just a tactical advantage to keep his attention.  A woman’s got to use all weapons at her disposal.”  Patience winked. Monica was quite sure that she’d never seen Patience blush.

 

Monica said, “Maybe our minds will be more important in the future. The world’s changing.  Perhaps ten years from now, maybe it will seem completely  normal for women to own their own businesses, cars, houses, or for us to be diplomats, or Prime Minister –“ 

 Lucy, one of the other nurses, scoffed. “Pssh! Are there drugs in your tea? Men _never_ let women take charge.”  Lucy, a junior nurse, was still a few months new to the hospital. Chatty, pretty, fond of clothes, men, and talking about herself, Lucy was speedily accepted into the staff social life. Much more quickly than she herself had, Monica believed, although she’d tried to be polite and approachable. The difference in treatment wasn’t Lucy’s fault; she sparkled, while Monica was quieter, and it was easy to overlook quiet people. She shouldn’t feel hurt by it, but it still bothered Monica.

 

“Men really do understand some things better. Maths and such,” Charity drained her teacup and crossed her arms defensively.  

 

“They’re just rubbish at, well, personal things,” Lucy said, unsmiling. Looking almost childishly vulnerable, she stared into her cup as though remembering something sad or seeking guidance her future in the tea leaves.  Monica smiled at her sympathetically.

 

Charity sighed. “Ladies ought to stick to jobs where emotions are useful. Wouldn’t trust a woman to run a country, meself.” 

 

 “Well, why not?” asked Monica. “Indira Gandhi is a leader. She’s even gone to America to meet the President. Women are intelligent. Can’t we do different jobs? Women have always worked in some way, we _have_ to. I’m glad to be part of the labor force.”

 “Well, they _did_ bring you people over her to help rebuild after the war, and I’ve seen plenty of coloured women working in London,” Fay said. “Sweeping floors, hospital orderlies. Taking tickets for London transport.”  Fay had traveled to London a grand total of three times and spoke of the city as though she possessed intimate knowledge of it.  Whenever Monica mentioned her years living there, Fay never seemed to be listening and would change the subject.

 

Silence fell. _You people_. Monica took a deep breath, feeling her face grow warm as blood rose to her cheeks. She didn’t dislike Fay, although the woman’s attitude towards her varied unpredictably from indifferent to mildly friendly.   _She’s a bit younger than I am_ , Monica thought, _still learning how to interact with people different to herself. I should have a more forgiving attitude_.

 

Choosing the peaceful path, Monica said, “There’s no shame in being a cleaner or mechanic. My aunt and uncle both work as cleaners in London. They just bought a second house in Brixton, and are letting it out. They did it all with hard work and tight fists.”

 

“Good for them, I suppose, but who’d want to live _there_ with all sorts? The _things_ I heard about Brixton while I was in London.” Fay shuddered theatrically.  “It must be cheaper to buy there.”

 

 “And you’ve spent _how_ much time in Brixton, may I ask? Mixed with the locals much?” Monica knew that her tone sounded snappish, but didn’t apologize even though she feared sounding mean.

 

Fay’s arched brows pulled together in genuine bewilderment. “A person just can’t say anything around you, can they? We British _do_ have certain standards.”

 

“Monica _is_ British,” snapped Patience. “Aren’t we all supposed to pull together? The common good and all that?”

 

Fay rolled her eyes and raised a shoulder in a dismissive shrug. “Britain needs to grow stronger. New people should be grateful and learn to fit in – not _complain_. That ‘rising tide lifts all boats’ idea can’t work when some people make waves.”  Standing, Fay smoothed her uniform over her neat, shapely figure. “Back to work.” Turning, she left the room with her head held high.

 

Suddenly, everyone else at the table had to leave too, clearing away the teapot and cups in a matter of seconds. Only Patience made eye contact with Monica as the room emptied.

 

“How awful! Saying those nasty things, and you sitting right here!”

 

Monica scooped out the spent tea leaves before she rinsed out the teapot. “People say all of that and worse quite often. Thanks for being on my side; nobody else wants to know.”

 

“Humph. Don’t know how you stand it,” Patience grumbled, wiping down the table with a sponge.

 

 “Got no choice,” Monica sighed.

 

Patience rinsed and wrung out the sponge forcefully. “I’d tell her to stick her ignorant prattle into a suppository and shove it up her arse.”

 

Monica gasped, then bent over the sink laughing. “Shhh, Patty! If Head Nurse hears you, she’ll make you put coins in the swear box.”  Attempting to lighten the mood, Monica lifted a dented tea tin from a shelf and rattled the coins inside. “Ooh, the swear box feels heavy. This must be a hard week for nurses.”

 

Patience let the matter drop. “Yeah, it’s been a busy month. I’m really looking forward to the weekend.  D’you want a lift to the party on Saturday?  I’ll ask Charlie to stop by for you after he picks me up. You won’t have to ride the bus alone late at night.”

 

“That’s kind, thank you.” Monica finished washing her tea mug and rinsed it. “But I’m thinking of asking someone to be my date.”

 

Patience grinned. “Get _you_ , asking a fella out. Anyone I know?”

 

Monica lowered her voice. “Not yet. He lives in the flat across from mine.”

 

Patience’s eyes widened. “Your neighbor? Sure that’s a good idea? You _like_ your flat. Might have to move if things go tits up with him.”

 

Monica stifled a laugh. “Hmm, wonder if the swear box accepts cheques. You’re racking up quite a bill.”

 

Sighing, Patience shook her head. “Speaking as a friend, Monica, it’s nice that he’s interested in you, but a _neighbor_? You know how blokes are, and I think I know how _you_ are: careful about your money and your heart. Too careful to go breaking a lease because of problems with men. So, who is he?”

 

“Nice, shy chap named Endeavour. Likes music and solving puzzles – crosswords and other types.” Monica placed her mug on a rack to air dry.

 

“ _Endeavour_? Are his parents religious fanatics, naming him like that? Met ‘em yet?”

 

“No, they’ve passed on, sadly. He doesn’t seem to care for the name so I just call him Dev. He’s with the police.”

 

Patience rolled her eyes expressively. “How original. Another nurse dating a copper. Well, now I’ve got to meet him and see if he’s up to scratch.”

 

“So far, he’s all right. A bit fond of his own company, but he’ll socialize when asked.” Monica dried her hands. “Normally I’d worry about the neighbor bit, but I liked him enough to say yes to dinner.” She didn’t mention the fact that she was tending to his bare back when he first asked her, or the obstacles delaying that first dinner, or that Morse was distracted by thoughts of an investigation when she finally sat across a table from him. Since then he was learning to be somewhat more attentive.

 

 “Don’t say yes to everything,” Patience warned, speaking as though she could read Monica’s facial expression and her thoughts. “Make him work for your time and attention.  He should be able to tell you what he likes about you, take you seriously.”

 

 _Too late…but Dev says yes to me, when I’m willing to ask._ “Oh, Pats, I know you’re keeping a watch out for me, and thanks. I’d do the same for you. So far he’s been nice; he doesn’t say how he feels, but I don’t think he’ll be cruel to me. Well, not deliberately, but --”

 

Pretending not to see Patience’s frown, Monica glanced up at the clock. “Right, my break’s over. I’m going to make my rounds, starting with Mr. Smythe, ending with the Man with No Name, our accident and stabbing victim from last night. Talk to you later.” 

…

 

“Home soon, the doctor says,” Monica said to Mrs. Rao. “You seem to be healing well.”  Mrs. Rao (appendix, room number 240) offered a tired half-smile of her own in response and silently let her vital signs be checked and recorded.  

 

If only she had time to hear more stories from Mr. Pelekoudas (problems with liver function, room 243) of how he made cheese from sheep’s milk – _feta_ , he called it – and wine during his youth! No longer robust, he now battled age and illness. She imagined him standing tall, his full head of hair still black and wavy as he strode through vineyards beneath Greece’s warm sun.  

 

A familiar yearning to travel preoccupied her as she said goodbye to Mr. Pelekoudas and went to the next room. Could a woman travel alone to explore vineyards?  Where in the wide world might people welcome her, a tourist of unexpected colour and sex?  

 

Would Dev ever consider leaving the walls of work and routine he’d built around himself to travel with her?  Quickly, she shut the travel fantasy down. It was too early to ask such questions, and the answer might prove painful.

 

More patients, more, sips of water, two linen changes, two elevated blood pressure readings. A few glares and mutterings about ‘Blacks’ (abdominal mass, room 245 and infection, 247), a bit of pleasant chatter from patients determined to be cheerful. Patient sick all over self (different abdominal mass, room 249), patient embarrassed and apologetic, moments of commiseration with orderlies.  Vomit, again – patient sick in bed (hernia and possible nervous condition, room 251). Linen change. Hand washing, over and over and over again, done carefully, remembering to clean under her fingernails. Smells of antiseptic, and the sound of buckets and mops. Bending, lifting, stretching. 

 

The boost of energy provided by the lump of sugar in her tea faded away to nothing, but Monica kept her chin up, her gaze observant, and her movements efficient. Had to, had to make sure that every patient was well looked after and felt that someone saw them as more than a body.  Had to be sure that Head Nurse Lockett, Dr. Amies, all the other nurses, the patients saw that she knew her job and did it properly, worked hard, harder than some people thought she could, or was willing to. It was simply how things were in the world for girls like her.  Monica’s parents had warned her. _Do your best, always_. Never late, no Island Time. Never lazy. Never stupid. Never angry or even a bit cross.   _There’s a price for everything in this world, and some of us must pay it twice._

 

Room 253: victim of car accident and stabbing, the Man with No Name. Stabbing reported to the police last night, but if any detectives or constables had come to the hospital, she’d not heard about it yet. Blood pressure a bit higher than yesterday. At this hour, blood at the wound site appeared to be clotting normally. No changes to prescribed medication yet. The soporific effect of the painkillers seemed to have prevented him from tossing and turning during the night, and no additional patient occupied the other bed in the semi-private room.  This was a quiet place to recuperate from someone else’s rage. 

 

Monica had just completed checking his vital signs and other parts of the necessary routine when the man fidgeted. She’d thought that was conscious the entire time, and spoke to him quietly, but he hadn’t answered. Now he regarded her with serious gray eyes.

 

“It’s good to see you’re awake, sir.” Monica changed position so that she could make better eye contact. “You were in a car accident, and someone hurt you with a knife. How do you feel?”

 

“Half dead,” the Man with No Name muttered. “Need help, or else…finish the job.”

 

“Believe me, we’ll do our best to bring you fully back to life, sir. You’re in hospital now, at Oxford.  Today is a Friday. Will you tell me your name, please?” Monica pulled a small pad and pencil from her uniform pocket.

 

He looked away, as though reluctant to answer, then exhaled.  “Peregrine Giles Reynolds. At least, that’s who I used to be.”

 

“Used to be, sir – I mean, Mr. Reynolds?”

 

“Ruined.  All,” the man sighed.

 

“Surely it’s not so bad as all that. We’ll do what we can here to help you get well.  Please tell me how to reach your family, friends, anyone. Is there a Mrs. Reynolds?”

 

“Read the telephone directory, girl.” He spoke with effort, as though more aware of the pain of his stab wounds. “You have my name; make the obvious calls. God, I _do_ prefer a private hospital.” Reynolds went still and stared at her. “Which nurse will attend me here, other than you?”

 

Monica answered him calmly. “Nurse Smith, and Head Nurse Lockhart may look in on you, too. Why do you ask?”

 

“That,” Peregrine Reynolds growled, “is none of your business.”

 

Perplexed by the man’s vague, curt words, Monica stepped away from the bed. Certain drugs made some patients behave oddly.  Drugs or no drugs, this patient seemed angry about something.  

 

“Sir, I’m leaving to get Dr. Amies. He’ll want to see you now that you’re awake and talking.”  The room had no telephone of its own, so she would have to go out and use the one near the nursing station.

 

Suddenly agitated, Reynolds moved as though trying to sit up. “You will come back, won’t you?” he demanded. “You. Not the others.”

 

She blinked. _Now he wants me to stay?_ “Of course. I’ll just be a moment.”

 

Monica hurried down the corridor towards the wall-mounted telephone. “Grumpy fellow.” The long space was empty, hardly unusual for the early afternoon. Her stomach growled loudly as she placed the call, facing away from the door of room 253.  She wasn’t tired, because she and Dev hadn’t stayed out particularly late last night. They’d only used the bed to sleep in cozy spoon position after a bit of kissing and cuddling (she’d become amorous and bitten Dev’s neck, but he only made a purring noise and promised to make it up to her when he felt more energetic).  She was hungry. _More than one egg at breakfast, that’s what I need_.

 

The woman answering the phone at the other end was twice interrupted by people shouting – perhaps a distressed patient being calmed by hospital staff -- but finally Monica made her request and was told that Dr. Amies was on his way.  Finally ending the call, Monica turned around to see someone in a hat and coat running from the doorway of room 253.

 

“What --? You! You there, stop!”   _What happened to my patient?_ She dropped the phone’s receiver with a loud clatter, and ran for room 253.

Monica’s right foot slipped as she went down on one knee, falling into a smear of blood.  At the last moment, she was able to press a shoulder against the wall, break the fall, and pull herself upright, her gaze seeking Reynolds.  

 

“Oh, God!”

 

Dark red streaks ran down his gown and across the white sheets. 

 

“ _Help_!”

 

* * *

 

Thanks for taking time to read! Constructive critique welcome.  Again, this story does not follow Inspector Morse canon particularly closely. Please allow for some flexibility re: timeline/people/places. Original characters and storyline are the intellectual property of Zizi West.

 

The chapter title is drawn from the writings of Steve Biko.  “…Double consciousness is knowing the history offered up to black people—its many interpretations and echoes of white superiority and black inferiority, of white heroism and black cowardice, and even the temporal and geographical location of history’s beginning as a step off of the African continent—is a falsehood that blacks are forced to treat as truth in so many countless ways. Double consciousness, in other words, is knowing a lie while living its contradiction."  Source: _I Write What I Like: Selected Writings_ , by Steve Biko.

 


	3. Presumed Incompetent

**STROKE**

An _Endeavour_ fanfiction story

Author: Zizi West

Disclaimer: I do not own any characters except the OCs, and don’t profit from this.  Original characters and storylines are my own.  This story does not adhere strictly to Inspector Morse canon or medical or police procedure.

 Warnings: blood

* * *

 

**Chapter 3: Presumed Incompetent**

 

**_Public Hospital Ward, Oxford_ **

Taking a knife to an already injured person was either deep hatred or someone's twisted business, but Monica had no time to think about which.

 

She quickly folded a towel, using it as a barrier between her hands and the patient’s body. That way, she wouldn’t infect the wound and her hands wouldn't get too slippery to work. Rushing to the bed, she tried to locate the source of the bleeding so that she could apply pressure to stop it. The new wound seemed to be just below his left lung. She used her left hand to press down on what appeared thebe the source of the bleeding and used her right to reach for a supply cabinet nearby. Mr. Reynolds’ face looked pale and blotchy, and his breathing was irregular. 

“Help!” she shouted again. “Help, _please_!”

Jerking open a supply drawer, Monica found a large sterile dressing with one waxy side, tore off its wrapping, and covered the wound, leaving the fourth side open.  

 

“ _Breathe_ , please!”

 

Mr. Reynolds inhaled, exhaled, and the loose fourth side let the air escape, preventing air from becoming trapped in the wound. Relieved, Monica grabbed another clean towel and lay it over the dressing, leaving one side clear. Mr. Reynolds groaned; his eyelids fluttered, but he held her gaze. Still conscious, then. Was his skin clammy? She couldn’t feel it well enough through the towel, so she leaned sideways to rest her face against his. He was warm, and either confused or repelled by her touch because he flinched.

Nausea lurched through her belly as she pulled her face away from his. Blood didn't frighten her, but she promised to help people through her work. Would she fail?

Lucy, who was usually at the nurses' station at this hour, ran into the room, stopping suddenly in the doorway with a loud gasp, her nurse’s cap tilting askew on her blond hair. “Monica! What have you _done_?”

Surprised by the other young woman's suspicious tone, Monica stammered, “W-what, _me_? Someone cut him! Get Head Nurse Green, or Doctor Amies. Hurry!”

One hand fumbling with a hairpin, Lucy backed out of the room. Monica looked down at the patient's pale, mottled face. “God help us. Don’t die. I’ve only just learnt who you are!” Keeping steady pressure on the wound, she exhaled loudly in frustration.  She and Lucy were about the same age, and had the same level of authority in the hospital: not much. Yet the other young woman spoke as though Monica had been careless, or intentionally hurt their patient. Now was not the time to worry about perceptions, but she couldn’t help but feel the sting.

“Our Father, that art in heaven,” she began in a low voice.  Mr. – took a deeper, rasping breath. “Steady on, sir – Hallowed be thy name – help's coming – thy kingdom come, thy will --”

 

“Nurse Hicks!” Head Nurse Green appeared at her side, startling Monica, who had heard nothing for the last few seconds but the man's rasping breath, and blood pounding in her ears.  Blue and white uniformed bodies, busy hands, concerned faces, and urgent voices swirled around her. Dr. Amies' voice was the loudest of all, directing harshly worded commands to nurses and a junior doctor. The sharp odor of antiseptic stung her nose.  A gap opened up between people, just wide enough for her to see the Mr. Reynolds lying back on the pillow, his eyes shut, before someone gently grasped her shoulder and pull her away from the bed.

 

Monica felt her teeth clacking together, and realized that every part of her was trembling. She blinked at Head Nurse. “I know his name. Reynolds. He told me. Peregrine Giles Reynolds.”

 

A heavy hand patted her shoulder. “Yes, dear. Let’s get you someplace quiet and you can tell me about it.”

 

Her nurse’s cap firmly in place, Lucy shook her head. “Poor Monica! If I'd been a minute later, our patient may well have been in terrible danger. Don't think that she could have held out much longer by herself,” Lucy said as Head Nurse Green steered Monica out of the room. “Good thing that _I’m_ able to handle emergencies.”

“Ooh, _there's_ a bit of cheek,” Monica heard herself saying as the dazed feeling began to wear off. “I called for help, I _did_ , and she asked what I'd done to him instead of helping --”

“Shh.” Face stern, Head Nurse Green jerked her head towards curious onlookers. Monica fell silent, understanding the need to for hospital staff to present a unified front.  She let the more experienced woman lead her out of sight and towards a sink. The colder air of the corridor hit her hands, making the blood on them feel suddenly thick, like painted-on gloves. Usually, blood held little fear for her, but the _reason_ for it...Monica couldn't scrub her hands, fingernails, and forearms hard enough.

 

“Stop that, Nurse Hicks, before you break your own skin. Come with me.” The expression in the older woman's eyes was kind, even concerned. Previously, Monica had found Head Nurse to be a professional and considerate leader. Although not particularly warm in her manner, the woman spoke to her in a way that recognized her humanity, which Monica appreciated.  Now, as she walked with the Head Nurse to her office, the woman kept up a stream of conversation meant to put her at ease.

 

“You're all right, then? No injuries to yourself? Don't feel nervous, dear. You did the right thing, I know your work. This wasn't your fault. I know that you tried to help him.  You'll need to speak to the Police, which you may do in my office.  Don't think of changing out of your uniform yet. The Police need to see things as they were, as I've learned from working in public hospitals – no situations quite like this one, not exactly, but one does learn something of their routines.”

 

The Head Nurse's office, though small and painted in cool hospital colors, was made brighter by pieces of framed needlepoint and a few carved, painted tourist items from various former British colonies.

 

“Right, let's see your hands. Any small cuts?”

 

Monica frowned. “I didn’t hurt him, never touched a knife,” she said defensively.

 

“No, but that doesn't mean you couldn't have scraped them on something, thereby admitting his blood to your wounds.”

 

Feeling her face grow hot, Monica let her shoulders relax. “Oh, sorry. I didn't think of gloves. I wanted to stop the bleeding.”

 

“A correct and honorable impulse, but nurses fall ill like anyone else. At least you used the towel.” Head Nurse turned each of Monica's freshly scrubbed hands over in turn, scanning them for breaks in the skin. “Use cream at night, if you're in the habit of scrubbing so hard. Nice skin like yours needs keeping up.”

 

Monica blinked. “Th-thank you, Nurse. I use cocoa butter.”

 

“Sounds lovely. Something from the West Indies, I suppose? Must have to go all the way to London for such things. Well, you haven’t got any wounds. I could do with a few less stabbings both outside the hospital and in.  What _is_ the world coming to, one wonders. Tea?”

**…**

**_At the Police Department_ **

 

Morse had finished filing the last bit of paperwork for a recent case a quarter of an hour before; the week had been slow. Now he sketched boxes, lines, words, trying to connect the loose threads of what Monica told him about the car accident victim the night before.  She’d slept over at his last night, slipping out quite early in the morning to prepare for work.  Sleeping with Monica – _only_ sleeping – had relaxed him almost to the point of contentment. Once, he’d awoken to find their fingers loosely entwined across the warm curve of her belly. That, like the sweet, vaguely chocolaty scent of the lotion she applied to her hands at night, was something he’d not easily forget.  Morse awoke just enough for a goodbye kiss when she left, dozing off before he remembered to ask her to gather more details about the mystery patient.

_Club Crastino_

_in flagrante delicto, compos sui_

Endeavour scoffed. Such doggerel Latin would be used as a flourish by a dilettante, not a scholar. A business might think it gave a veneer of ‘class’ to their business card. The club didn’t appear in the telephone directory. Unlicensed liquor sales? Safe guess. Perhaps sales of women’s attentions, too.  

 

Detective Inspector Thursday strode over to him, his hat on his head and one arm already in his overcoat sleeve. “Off we go, Morse. Car. Hospital.”

 

“What’s happened, sir?”

 

“Assault of a patient, already stabbed, knifed again whilst in bed.  A nurse interrupted, raised the alarm.”

 

Morse never relied on pure, illogical intuition, but apprehension prickled across the back of his neck. The pencil in his hand fell onto his desk blotter. “Injured? Dead? Who?”

 

“No deaths nor names yet, but plenty of questions.”

 

Light midday traffic and uneasy gut feelings tempted Morse to speed to the hospital, but his natural caution dampened any desire for recklessness. Thursday filled in the missing pieces. “Here’s what we have. Today a man came in with a knife and tried to speed the progress of a patient towards the grave.  A nurse saw the man running away, called for help, and tried to stop the bleeding.”

Morse inhaled so loudly that Thursday turned his head sharply to look at him. “Did he hurt her – ah, how badly did he hurt the patient?” More asked, his voice slightly too loud inside the car.

Squinting at Morse, Thursday said, “ _Victim’s_ still alive. We’ll find out more through questioning. ”

“Uh, sir...”  Morse slowed a bit to turn a corner and avoid a cyclist. “Sir, was the victim a posh type, stabbed, brought in last night?”

Thursday rubbed his chin.  “Officers dealt with the crash site last night in accordance with the usual procedures. Been tapping phone calls, Morse? P’raps you should brief _me_ on this situation.”

As the shapes of hospital buildings grew closer, Morse cleared his throat, an unwanted blush creeping over his cheekbones. “There’s something I should tell you.” 

 

“Wondered when you’d get to that,” Thursday returned dryly.

 

“One of the nurses that helped that man told me about him last night. She said that they had to cut him out of an expensive suit, and when he did speak he was disoriented; they couldn’t get his name. The stabbing wasn’t robbery. He had fifty pounds on him notes and a card from what seems like a private club, in Latin. She remembered what was on the card. I translated it.”

 

Thursday nodded. “I’d expect nothing less of you.  What did it say?”

 

“ _Club Crastino,_ and under that the slogan _in flagrante delicto, compos sui_. Roughly, it’s ‘Club Tomorrow, caught in the act, having the full use of one’s limbs’.”

 

“Never heard of it. I’ll speak with Vice.”

 

“Normally I wouldn’t mention a private conversation, but in this case…” Morse felt as though he were fumbling for words, but D.I. Thursday only nodded.

 

“It’s a good thing you told me; it may help to settle this quickly. And you know this nurse _how,_ exactly?”

 

Morse took a deep breath. “Neighbor.”

 

“Oh? Do you often chat about police matters?”

 

“No. I don’t violate confidentiality with her, nor does she tell me everything about her patients.” 

 

“Right. Look here: both of us interview the nearest witnesses. If your mystery nurse turns out to be the one that was in the room with the assailant, then I lead the interview with her.”  At Morse’s questioning glance, Thursday explained, “I need to know if she tells me the same story that she told you.  Anyone else, we can interview separately.”

… 

Morse turned to see Monica and two other nurses approach them from down the hospital corridor, inhaling audibly as he saw the dried blood stains and smears on Monica’s skirt and one of her legs. Thursday's deep voice dropped to an even lower register as the women came closer. 

 

“Which?” he asked quietly.

  

* * *

 

Thanks for taking time to read! Constructive critique welcome.  Again, this story does not follow Inspector Morse canon particularly closely. Please allow for some flexibility re: timeline/people/places/procedures. Original characters and storyline are the intellectual property of Zizi West.

 


	4. For Goodness’ Sake, Do Ask

_**STROKE** _

An _Endeavour_ fanfiction story

Author: Zizi West

Disclaimer: I do not own any characters except the OCs, and don’t profit from this.  Original characters and storylines are my own.  This story does **not** adhere strictly to Inspector Morse canon, and takes place about 1 month after Morse and Monica finally have their first date.  Consider it a story about what happens off camera, in between the events of the series.

Warnings: none.

**Chapter 4:  For Goodness’ Sake, Do Ask**

 

##  **_In the hospital corridor, Oxford_ **

 

Morse responded to D.I. Thursday’s question with a barely perceptible tilt of his head. Thursday cast a narrow sidelong look at his junior partner, noting the direction of Morse’s gaze – and his frown as he saw the blood stains on one nurse’s uniform and stocking.

 

Walking as nimbly as the brunette, gray-eyed nurse beside her, Monica approached.  Her smooth, dark skin contrasting with the blue, white, green, and silver metallic colors of the hospital.  She looked efficient and capable, like she belonged there, until she came close enough for Morse to see her expression. Until now, there been no reason for him to see her cry, but the puffiness around her eyes hinted that she had wept, and quite recently. The realization unsettled him.

 

Head Nurse Green and D.I. Thursday exchanged a nod. “Welcome back, Detective Thursday. Here you are, and it’s not even Saturday night yet.”

 

“Does trouble ever wait for the weekend, Nurse Green? How are you?”

 

“Well enough, for all this morning’s trouble. Our nurse handled it properly, though.” The older woman cast an approving look – not precisely a smile – at Monica.

 

The young brunette nurse spoke without waiting for an introduction. “Hello, gentlemen. I’m Nurse Patience Cokes. We’ve met before, Mr. Thursday.” Although she addressed the older man, she aimed a curious look at Morse.

 

“Yes, I remember you, Miss. And you, Nurse…?” 

 

“Hicks.” Monica and Morse spoke simultaneously.

 

Monica inhaled audibly, glancing nervously between the men and Patience. Clearing her throat, she said, “Monica Hicks.” Thursday’s eyebrows rose nearly as high as his hairline, but he smoothly continued, “I'm Detective Inspector Thursday, and this is Detective Morse.”

 

Endeavour nodded to Patience in acknowledgement -- “Nurse Cokes” -- but watched Monica. All of a sudden, he realized that he’d come to know her well enough to see that she blushed. Had he been reckless enough to stroke her cheek, he’d have felt heat rising in her face. D. I. Thursday doffed his hat and Monica half-smiled at the gentlemanly gesture.

 

Morse’s tone was abrupt. “Are you hurt?” It looked odd for him to stand so close to Monica but he couldn’t help it. It bothered him that he couldn’t embrace her, bloodstained clothing and all. Had they been alone, he could have held her close and offered soothing, nonsensical murmurs and kisses. She’d often done the same for him when he was tired or frustrated. Despite her independence and self-confidence, Monica seemed to crave affection – getting and giving.

 

“No, I’m not hurt,” Monica answered softly.  At her waist, her hands moved anxiously, clasping, unclasping while D.I. Thursday explained the need for questioning.

 

“I wasn’t there,” Patience said. “You’ll need to ask a different nurse, Lucy. I’m just here for Monica. She could do with a bit of looking after.” Blushing, Morse looked away first. The other nurse was pretty in kind of wholesome way, if a little tough. He’d always prided himself on maintaining an opaque expression, but this Patience person seemed the type that saw through things.   _How much had Monica told her?_

 

A constable arrived, evidence camera in hand, and an uneasy Monica was directed to stand against a wall for evidence photographs of her blood-stained uniform.  Still feeling a bit shaky, Monica looked cautiously at D.I. Thursday, the man Dev spoke of so admiringly. The big man’s quietly alert demeanor and worn macintosh overcoat would have hinted at his profession if she’d only passed him in the street. Thursday’s facial expression was mild, almost mysterious, but when they made eye contact she understood that he studied her as closely as she did him. Immediately she stood up straighter, as though posing for an identification photograph, and glanced at Dev. 

 

 _Goodness!_ How hard Endeavour Morse stared. One hand fidgeted with a small pocket-sized notebook and pencil.  He looked different when he was working. The spare, wiry body that she so quietly, secretly enjoyed – capable of slow heat, languor and unhurried pleasure – was now alert, taut. Dev’s penetrating gaze softened only a little when he looked at her. He was quite different when he was being Morse, and not being her Dev –

 

Wincing, she closed her eyes as the camera bulb flashed. _He isn’t_ my _Dev. What am I to him? He’s never said._ Odd, uncomfortable thoughts to have now.

 

“Bring that camera closer and try again,” a voice muttered nearby. “Might not be able to see her face in the picture, she’s that dark.”

 

Monica bit back a retort. A person more skilled with a camera would have known where to position her to reflect light, and how to set the exposure properly instead of using up the flash. The Trinidadian photographer in her neighborhood in London would have known all of this, and would not have spoken as though the fault of bad photographs lay in her skin. But she knew better than to let anyone think she wanted to make any trouble with the police, so she kept quiet.

 

Before the detectives took her aside for questioning, Patience leaned near. “I’ve asked round and found a clean uniform that you can change into.”

 

“Oh, you’re an angel, Patience. Thank you. I don’t want to go home and sit and worry. I’ll work my full shift.”

 

“Thought you would. I’d feel the same.” Patience elbowed Monica gently. “Aren’t you the quiet one, though? Your fella’s quite the looker. He’s a right choir boy, with that hair and face.”

 

Monica smiled. “He does sing, as it happens. Goes to rehearsals in one of the Oxford chapels.”

 

“Ever heard him and the choir? Is he as good at music as he is at detecting?”

 

“I wouldn’t know…he’s never invited me.” Hearing her own words, Monica paused, then quickly added, “but I’ve been busy.”

 

Patience frowned. “Oh? My lad had _me_ meet his friends early on. We’ve been together a year now.”

 

Some distance away, Endeavour spoke to a constable. Monica turned away and shrugged. “Oh, I think Dev just likes to manage his life in different parts.”

 

“P’raps he’s nice in other ways. Now here they come, looking for you. Find me when it’s over. It’ll be all right.” Patience patted Monica on the shoulder and left.

 

* * *

 

##  **_Inside the Head Nurse’s office, door closed_ **

 

“And then, Miss Hicks, you saw him run away, is that correct?”

 

“Yes, sir, but I went back to my patient right away.”

 

“Hmm.” D. I. Thursday shifted in his chair. When he next spoke his voice sounded gentle, encouraging. “Here’s something that I must ask you, nurse. Had anything happened earlier in the day to upset you, make you angry?”

 

“Oh, no. It was a rather good morning, in fact.” She avoided looking at Morse; she’d begun the day close as spoons with him in bed. “All went well with the patients.”

 

“And you get on well with your colleagues?”

 

Lucy’s shocked face, her cry of ‘ _What have you done?_ ’ flashed across her thoughts. “I do try. Our profession demands much of us, and sometimes one may be short-tempered, but that fades. We must all strive together, and petty rivalries only hurt us all. I know that I’m the…only _one_ working on this ward, but I have made friends here.”

 

Thursday didn’t seem discomfited by her mention of race. “Miss, you’re the only witness to what happened. You saw him, but no-one saw _you_.”

 

Gasping, Monica leaned back in her chair. “Me? Why would I hurt him? The poor man had only just begun talking. I’d never harm a patient! I put my whole heart into this work.” She heard herself gulping air, feeling sick.

 

Endeavour leaned forward. “Monica, it’s not an accusation. The question’s just procedure.”

 

“Did someone say I did it?” she snapped. “Oh, the cheek!” Unconsciously, she made the smacking sound that she did when angry or annoyed, an intake of air sucked against her teeth. Morse’s expression showed that he recognized it, but he kept his tone professional. “Circumstances might lead some to ask the question.”

 

“Another nurse, Lucy, came in and saw me.  Did anyone ask if she saw the man run away? I couldn’t chase him.  I had to help Mr. Reynolds.”  Monica glanced between Thursday and Morse. “Patients come first.”

 

A knock rattled the door. “Sir! Found something. Left in a stairwell.”

 

‘Something’ turned out to be a blood stained, expensive gentleman’s overcoat and a crumpled, once fine felt hat. Monica identified both as resembling the clothing worn by the man with the knife. Inspection of the overcoat revealed a name neatly embroidered along the edge of an inside pocket: _Mr. Peregrine G. Reynolds_.

 

“But that’s his own name,” Monica said. “The patient. He told me, just before this happened. He wasn’t wearing that mac nor a coat of any sort when he was brought in last night.” She explained how Reynolds had had to be cut out of his clothes. Upon Morse’s request, Head Nurse Green unlocked the cupboard used to store patient belongings. Morse peered closely at the business card that Monica had told him about the night before -- _Club Crastino, in flagrante delicto_ – and copied the information on his notepad _._ Nothing else, aside from the large amount of money Reynolds had carried, revealed much.

 

One of the other policemen called out to D. I. Thursday, and he excused himself to speak with his colleague.

 

“Did I do the right thing?” Monica asked Endeavour in a low voice. “Honestly, I told both of you everything I can remember.”

 

Morse and motioned with his head for Monica to follow him into an alcove.  Once out of sight, he leaned forward for a fast kiss. “I believe you, and I’m very glad that you weren’t hurt. Stay near other people. Call the police at once if something else happens.” He pulled several coins from his pocket, placing them in her hand. “Take a cab home. I can’t pick you up in time for the end of your shift. I’ll be busy with the paperwork for this case.”

 

Monica shook her head and put the coins back into his palm.  “That’s kind of you, Dev, but I’ll take the bus at the same time as one of the other nurses or staff.”

 

“Come on, accept it. Unless you can wait until we finish here, and I can see you home early?”

 

“The Head Nurse already suggested that I go home, but I’m staying to work the rest of my shift today.  Mr. Reynolds should worry, not me.”

 

Morse frowned. “ _Do_ listen to me. I want you safe.” He pressed the money back into her hand, closing her fingers around it. “ _Cab,_ Monica.”

 

“Where’s Morse got to?” someone asked from the corridor.

 

“Sorry, but I’m needed.”

 

“Aren’t you always?” she said, and kissed his cheek. “See you tonight, I hope.”

 

* * *

 

 

Staying busy was the best prescription for Monica because she had little time to worry. Other patients needed care and attention. When she finished her rounds, she asked for routine tasks, hard work, anything to block the memory of Mr. Reynolds’ betrayed expression and bloody bed. 

 

Somehow she found herself assisting with an accident that wasn’t an emergency, but a welcome distraction all the same.  “Nurse Hicks! One more set of hands needed for this one. Forearm splint.”

 

The patient was a pale, sweating young man with a mop of dark, wavy hair. As Monica entered he inhaled air between his teeth, making a hissing sound in response to the pain. Nurse Green and a doctor appeared to have everything under control, but then the young man’s full lips opened to let loose a string of loud, angry foreign words. French ones.

 

Many of those words were probably dreadfully rude, and she was glad not to know them. Monica recognized the sound from the language learning records available from the lending library, as well as the subtitled art films that she’d seen with her friends at the local repertory cinema. The moody French actors spoke in ways unlike the voices on the records. Their gazes sultry, they muttered around cigarettes dangling from their lips. Monica and her girlfriends murmured their admiration anyway. _Yves Montand_ , they intoned over drinks afterward. _Jean-Paul Belmondo_. _Alain Delon_. Knowing that their own pronunciation was rotten, they burst into laughter. _Who needs the same language? Ooh_ , _la la!_ _That Alain Delon – I_ _would_ , Monica admitted shamelessly, _and it wouldn’t require much talking._ Another eruption of giggles.

 

“Doctor, Nurse Green, how may I help?”

 

Opening his eyes at the sound of a new voice, the young man stared at Monica. His dark brown eyes almost looked black. “Ahh…” he said on a long exhale, suddenly wincing as the doctor and Nurse Green settled a splint against his injured arm. 

 

“Keep him calm, if you can,” Nurse Green said dryly, giving Monica a look that spoke of vexation. Monica nodded and stepped forward. Not everyone made a good patient.

 

Monica acknowledged the patient with a smile. “I see that you’re in good hands with the doctor and Nurse Green. I’m Nurse Hicks. Er, _sois calme_ , _monsieur,_ ” she managed. “Take deep breaths, like this.”

 

He shuddered with pain again, but matched his breathing to hers. “ _Parlez Francais? Êtes-vous aux Caraïbes? **[1]**"_

 

“Sorry, sir, no more French. You just heard most of what I know. But yes, my family are Jamaican.”  

 

“ _Est-ce donc **[2]**? _ Your French accent, it’s not terrible.” He appeared to regret his words. “ _Euh_ , I mean to say, you speak well, Miss Hicks. Please, call me Romain.”

 

Monica decided against mentioning the language records. “They’re going to wrap that tight now, sir –“ He lifted one eyebrow, and his lower lip moved forward in a pout. “Romain, then. You’ll feel more pain, but this will be over soon.” The young man’s fingers tightened around hers, but he didn’t curse again. Instead he matched her deep breaths until the procedure ended.

 

“Doctor, Nurse Green, I am sorry to be rude to you,” he said earnestly. “I had much pain but I know you didn’t cause it. Please, I am sorry. Thank you all for helping me.”

 

“That’s all right.” The junior doctor was one that Monica worked with infrequently. He was kinder and more tolerant of both patients and staff than was Dr. Amies. “Follow the directions I gave you, and that arm will improve inside of three weeks. Until then, no activity more strenuous than studying.”

 

An Oxford student, then. Maybe this would make a diverting story to tell Patience and the others. Guiltily, she thought of Endeavour. The young Frenchman was attractive and seemed to be in no hurry to release her hand. His fingers were long and slim, like Dev’s. Feeling self-conscious, Monica pulled away, but not before Romain rose to his feet, bowing over her hand. There was no kiss, but his breath whispered across her knuckles. “ _Mademoiselle._ ”

 

“Enough flirting – let my nurse alone! This is a place of _work_.” Nurse Green snapped. “Nurse Hicks! We’re finished here.”  The last glimpse that Monica had of the young man’s expression was hard to interpret. Had he actually been mocking her? Romain hadn’t smelled of liquor; maybe he was just coldly sarcastic. She quickly followed Head Nurse Green out of the room.

 

“All high-and-mighty hormones, those Oxford boys,” muttered Nurse Green as they strode down the corridor. “Foreigners make it worse. I won’t have that sort of kerb-crawling behavior here. You girls deal with enough foolishness as it is.” She slowed her pace to remove her glasses and wipe them on her handkerchief.  “Speaking of which, ‘tis past time you went home. It’s nigh six o’clock and you’ve run yourself off your feet today. When you return on Monday I want to see you well-rested.”

 

Saturday and Sunday off? A luxury, or time not spent earning her wages and maintaining a good impression. “But ma’am, I’ve a Sunday night shift,” Monica protested.

 

Nurse Green shrugged. “Aye, and a slow shift it is, oftentimes.”

 

“This is so kind of you, Head Nurse, but I won’t shirk my duty. Really, I’m I feel fine now. I’d rather work Sunday as expected.”

 

“No. I’ll put the sick note in writing and make sure that it goes into your file.” The telephone rang in Nurse Green’s office, and the older woman strode away before Monica could protest. 

 

* * *

 

**_Monica’s flat, fifty-five minutes later_ **

 

The post held a letter from her mother, as though it were a normal day.

 

Her mother’s letter was a long, perfectly aligned paragraph of painstakingly neat handwriting.

 

_Dearest Monica,_

_Our Trevor and his Mary have by the grace of God now got a house in Notting Hill. All ready for the baby.  It is a good marriage.  When you come back you must speak to them about buying a house. You could work in London and have a better chance at a husband. I know you don’t like me saying this to you but if you mean to try for a husband you must do it soon. Time does fly. Here we and our friends can help you find a good man. Family always will help you. I know you are pleased with your job but who will care for you in Oxford? There aren’t enough West Indian men or maybe you meet African men there but our ways of life are so very different, you must be know each other carefully if one does ask you on a date. All this ‘dating’ does not sit well with me it was better in my day when the families and neighbours knew each other so you knew more of the man. It sounds funny but we could investigate each other –_

 

The choice of wording made Monica groan aloud.

 

_\-- so at least you knew what you got._

_We hope and pray that you will come to London at the holiday. May Jesus protect you always._

_Love,_

_Mother_

 

Carefully folding the letter, Monica replaced it in its envelope and placed it into a box that she’d covered with remnants of last year’s Christmas wrapping paper. The box held other letters and postcards sent by family and friends. Nothing from Dev.  Would he write to her if one of them ever traveled?

 

_But who will care for you in Oxford?_

 

* * *

Thank you for reading – and posting reviews, should you feel so inclined.

[1] You speak French? Are you from the Caribbean?

[2] Is that so?


	5. Upper Crust and Sweet Filling

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No content warnings in this chapter. Disclaimer/notes: I do not own the characters from the show, just my original characters, setting, and storyline. This story doesn’t follow the timeline of the show, but it’s 1966.

The average Englishwoman looks unstroked, uncaressed and emotionally undernourished. She is also terribly unsure of herself. How far should she go towards aping men? How much should she retain of her femininity? Do Englishmen really like Woman and the Feminine? 'I don't think they do, you know, observed a male novelist to the author, 'I never feel the warm flow between men and women in an English drawing-room that one gets on the Continent. ' (It may be a crumb of comfort to the average Englishwoman to know that her husband—being English—probably prefers a football match to another woman.)

But indifference unhinges Eve. She needs to be loved, and to love in return.

Source: “Love and the English”, by Nina Epton, 1961, page 362.

…

####  _Later on the day of the stabbing incident. Place: a neighbourhood beyond Oxford city centre_

Curtains twitched as Thursday and Morse climbed out of the car and approached the house owned by Peregrine Reynolds. A silver Jaguar sat shining in the driveway curving up to a large house constructed of gray stone. It was difficult to guess how old the structure was. Its exterior looked as though it had been repeatedly remodeled & expanded to fit changing architectural styles and tastes. The Jag was of more recent vintage. Morse’s steps slowed as he admired the flowing, urbane curves of the costly motorcar. 

“Stay on the job, lad,” D.I. Thursday said.  “Lust is one of the seven deadly sins.”

A housekeeper in a dark, modestly styled dress answered Thursday’s knock on the broad wooden door, itself painted yet another tone of gray. The woman’s large, blue-gray eyes widened as though fearful of opening the door to police, but she murmured a polite greeting and admitted the men.

“This way, gentlemen.”

Her steps made no sound on the plush carpet runner, which was a blue so pale it may have looked gray in different lights. Morse looked around, expecting to see portraits of moneyed ancestors hanging from the Victorian-era picture rail along beige walls, but there were only framed landscapes. Anyone may have lived there. The housekeeper led them through the open door of a room decorated in a somewhat brighter light blue.

Mrs. Reynolds, the victim’s wife, was as sleek and polished as the Jag outside.  A smoothly lacquered, moderately bouffant helmet of ash blonde hair curved around her head; her red, puffy eyes were outlined in black.  Her jewelry was conservative and likely as expensive as her perfume. 

“I knew you’d come,” she said in a flat tone of voice.  She remained seated as Thursday and Morse approached, motionless except for one hand bringing a cigarette to her lips, which were smoothly painted in a deep peach color. Morse observed a crystal Scotch glass and decanter, both empty, on a small table near her elbow.

“Good afternoon, ma’am,” Thursday said.  “Detective Inspector Thursday and Inspector Morse. Very sorry about what’s happened to your husband. We’d like to ask you a few questions. This is difficult, I understand, but any information, no matter how small the detail, will help.”

Three seconds passed, during which the woman drew in, then exhaled a plume of smoke. “There is little I can tell you, but do sit down.” She inclined her head towards two elegant chairs, upholstered in muted shades of blue to match the other furnishings of the room.  Morse took a seat beside Thursday, awkwardly moving his legs away from a fussy little table, one of several in the room. 

How could one housekeeper keep so much dust-catching stuff tidy? The place was overpopulated with cabinets on ornate legs, table lamps (Endeavour counted three matching pairs), crystal vases, and Chinese ceramics, floor lamps, a gleaming fire screen, and _objets d’art_. Long windows framed by heavy blue velvet drapes admitted greyish light from the overcast sky. 

Morse’s inquisitive gaze found only a few pictures in this room. There were formal studio photographs of the Reynolds as a couple and with their two children; a large, unexpected abstract starburst painting on canvas opposite the fireplace; and two large oil paintings above the marle-fronted fireplace. One was of a man – Peregrine Reynolds in better times, presumably – the other, of Mrs. Reynolds.

Morse mentally checked his notes for her given name, Marian. _Marian Reynolds_. In the portraits, both husband and wife glared out at the world with an air of glacial hauteur, as though only people of a certain quality should dare to look upon them. Perhaps people of this class – still regarded by some as _arrivistes_ possessed of only a few generations of industrial wealth – thought it gauche to display informal photographs of children, picnics and family holidays. 

Despite the cool weather, Morse suddenly wanted to open a window to escape the stifling display. _Nobody ever had a kip on a sofa in this room._ It was like being trapped inside a jewel box, with Reynolds’ wife in the center, a gleaming, prized possession. 

Mrs. Reynolds’ eyes moved, assessing Thursday and looking Morse up and down. “Cigarette, gentlemen?” she asked, inclining her head towards a silver plated, monogrammed box on the table.  It sat beside an enormous, grenade-shaped blue glass lighter that looked heavy enough to bludgeon someone senseless.

“Scotch?” Marian persisted, after both men declined tobacco.

It was ten minutes past two in the afternoon. Thursday kept his expression polite and free from judgment.  “No, but thank you, ma’am,” he replied calmly.

Marian glanced at Morse. “None for the young man either? Well, _I’d_ like some.” She turned her head towards the apron-clad woman hovering near the entrance to the room and raised her voice. “Agnes, more Scotch, please. For _all_ of us, even though the detectives are pretending they don’t want any. Shut that door behind you, mind,” she added sternly.

Agnes vanished, and Thursday began his questions. Marian answered quickly and coherently, showing no obvious signs of being drunk, not even after Agnes delivered a fresh decanter of Scotch and poured her employer a generous serving. Thursday and Morse continued to decline the alcohol.

“Yes, I have spoken to the doctor and more than one nurse and others today…No, I haven’t been to visit him in hospital yet…No, I had no reason to think Perry was missing last night.”

Morse knew that Peregrine Reynolds held an executive-level position with a local oil and gas company. “Does he often work late, Mrs. Reynolds?”

“Work? Hmph.” She stubbed out her cigarette. “I would prefer that this didn’t become public, but Peregrine…our post comes to the same house but he often lives away. _Plays_ away, with younger mates.”  Her gaze flicked over Morse again, as though searching for some quality that he lacked.

Morse shifted his weight uneasily.  Marian was very attractive, in a sort of waxen, too-perfect fashion. He broke eye contact and looked around the room. For some reason, he thought of Monica’s photographs in her flat: family and distant cousins and nursing classmates, humbly displayed in cheap and cheerful Woolworths picture frames. 

Morse noticed that Thursday blushed as if remembering something uncomfortable. “I see. Might he have had another address – a flat, say, in town?”

“No. Household accounts are my responsibility, I insisted upon it. Perry made a lot of dosh in Iran, but not enough to keep this house, our cottage, and a separate flat, too.”

Thursday and Morse exchanged a quick look, surprised by both Marian’s verbal slip into slang and Iran. “How long ago was Mr. Reynolds in Iran?” D.I. Thursday asked.

“All four of us lived abroad at different periods – the children, too, for about fifteen years. Perry worked for the oil companies, moved a great deal of money around through business contracts on British and American sides. Dreadful, people, Americans. No sense of taste or class. We only settled in here four years ago, and it’s been downhill since then.”

Morse glanced down at the richly patterned carpet under his feet, then asked a question. “How so, please?” he asked. Perhaps Marian would reply that Peregrine Reynolds was in debt. If it were a personal debt or gambling debt, he may have been on his way to repay the person when his car crashed. It would explain why the man carried so many high denomination notes, as Monica had told him and the hospital had confirmed.

“Working in oil and gas distribution, even in upper management, isn’t the same as going out to an Aramco field and watching the equipment working. Our English life is comfortable enough, but if only we could have that same manner of living here at home! In Iran, we had the most beautiful villa, and servants for every need. I never cooked unless I felt homesick! I used to sit down with a gin and tonic in the evenings, under the stars, and think: _this must be what living in the Raj was like._ We had we wanted: adventure for Perry; time to paint for me.”

“Those are your landscapes, in the corridor?” Morse asked.

“Yes. My usual subjects were the English countryside, even though we were still living near Isfahan when I painted those.”

Morse wondered why, but only said, “Very nice work, ma’am. Did your husband have political connections abroad or at home?”

“Only the occasional diplomatic reception, and those invitations were scarce until the Shah was well and truly settled in.” Marian’s words slurred a bit now. Despite his fear that she’d be unreliable, Morse pressed on.

“When Prime Minister Mossadeq was deposed, in 1953, did that affect Mr. Reynold’s business in any way?”

Marian spluttered, and put down her glass of Scotch. “How do you know that?”

“I was in the newspapers, Ma’am. Fifteen years in the country, you said. So, you resided in Iran during the 1951 blockade, when Britain halted oil exports?”

“Yes, but Perry had nothing to do with any government decisions, none. I brought the children home to England just before the blockade, while Perry stayed on. If he did anything unusual while we were away, I never heard of it. We returned to Iran in 1953 after that Mossadeq was gone – folk gossiped about American involvement, but I know nowt about such stuff. General Zahedi became Prime Minister, the Shah returned, and we could enjoy our old lifestyle. A friend wrote me that the Shah is modernizing the country now – almost makes me wish that I could go back, but there’s nothing else for it now.”

Morse exchanged a glance with D.I. Thursday. Somehow he doubted that many Iranian people she’d interacted with would welcome Marian’s return. Now sitting up straight in her wing chair, Marian looked sober and wary. “Thank you, Mrs. Reynolds. I haven’t any more questions about that.”

Mrs. Reynolds squinted. “How advanced is your education, lad?”

“Oxford. St. John’s College.”

Her top lip curled slightly, creasing the peach-toned perfection of her mouth. “You, an Oxonian?  You don’t look the type.”

“Army, as well.”

“You don’t look that sort, either.” Her gaze scanned him from head to toe again, as if to say _, I’ve held luncheons costing more than that suit you’re wearing_. “Do policemen marry these days, or have you still wild oats to sow?”

Morse’s shoulders stiffened. He was reluctant to have either Marian Reynolds or Thursday hear his answer to such a question. “If you please, ma’am, we still have a few more questions related to our investigation.”

She continued as though he hadn’t spoken. “If you _were_ married, you’d know that husbands and wives often live in their own worlds outside the home. Perry didn’t even phone me to say he’d be home late – never does anymore.” Exhaling loudly, Marian slumped in her chair and threw back her head, covering her eyes with her forearm. “Listen, gents, I’ve told you all I know. Leave me in peace. That’s all I can manage today.”

Thursday and Morse rose to their feet. “Are you all right, ma’am?” the older man asked.

Lowering her arm, Marian closed her eyes and rested her head against one side of the wing chair where she sat. “No one ever _listens_ to me. Agnes!” she shouted.

The housekeeper’s footsteps sounded in the corridor, almost at a full run. “Mrs. Reynolds?”

“The detectives were just leaving. Be a dear and show them out, won’t you?”

 …

  ** _Monica’s flat, Oxford. The same e_ _vening._**

Sighing, Monica sank into a chair and dipped her feet into a basin of hot water and Epsom salts. As upsetting as today’s incident was, it reminded her that she could function during a crisis, help someone in need of urgent help. She prayed that Monday would be a normal day, that she could do her jo and perhaps talk to Head Nurse about her future in the profession, something she’d wanted to do for a while.

For now, there were coins in the meter for light and warmth, and a cup of tea an arm’s reach away. A jumble sale Georgette Heyer novel – the sort of thing that she kept hidden from Morse's university-educated sneer -- rested on her lap. Grander literature sat on her bookshelf, but she craved escape into wit and pleasure. Monica read until the water cooled, emptied and rinsed the basin, and settled down to read more. Engrossed in the novel, she was startled by the knock. It was Endeavour Morse's knock: _one, pause, one…one, two, three, four_ and so on, representing notes of the melody of the Grand March from Giuseppe Verdi’s opera, _Aida_. This operatic secret knock had been Dev's idea. Monica reluctantly agreed, murmuring that the Grand March took much longer than the four quick taps she suggested.  Endeavour had crossed his arms. “Women living alone can't open their doors to just anyone. _Aida_ is more difficult for strangers to guess,” he insisted, as Monica rolled her eyes.

 

“ _That’s_ a cert. Not so many vicious opera fans roaming the town as of late.” She sighed and touched his cheek. “ _Aida_ , then. I'll be safe as houses.” Shelving the book with its spine facing the wall, Monica put her slippers on and slid back the door chain.

 

The chill from his fingers couldn’t beat the warmth in his expression. Endeavour kissed her, lingering longer than usual. Dev's expressions of affection still felt rare and surprising, so she eagerly leaned into him. “All right?” he asked after a while. Somehow while leaning against the door they’d pulled his mackintosh half off, one arm still in a sleeve, the other around her waist. “Better than I was. Tired from all of that nightmarish business.” Monica realized that she had pulled out his shirttail during the kiss, the better to splay one hand across the warm skin of his lower back. _Slow down, miss_ , she mentally scolded herself. But she wasn’t amorous. Instead she wanted…something. Kindness, a cuddle.

 

She looked up at him. “It was nice to meet Mr. Thursday, though.”

 

“Mm, yes.” Dev’s tone was noncommittal, but he blushed slightly. She raised her eyebrows – _Did you tell him about us? What did Mr. Thursday think? --_ but Endeavour said no more.

 

 “What happened afterward? Will you be able to catch the man that did it?” she asked.

 

For a moment, he looked fatigued. “Did what we could, and no, we haven't yet got enough to arrest anyone.” They parted so that he could shrug off his overcoat. “More tomorrow.”

 

Monica took the overcoat and hung it up.  “You must be quite done in yourself. I’ll put the kettle on.”

 

Dev’s hand touched her shoulder, squeezed. “No, let me.”

 

His thoughtfulness put her at ease. Dev washed his hands – she would be vexed if he didn't – and filled the kettle. “How did you get home, Monica?”

 

“My friend Patience – she’s the other nurse that was with us today. Her lad came to see her home and gave me a lift in his van. He’s an assistant in his father's butcher shop. I’ll give you your cab money back, as I didn’t use it.”

 

“Butcher? Van? Sounds like elements of a police investigation,” he said wryly as she pulled the money from her handbag.

 

“Really, Dev. Patience and Charlie, her fella, are entirely decent people.” She put the money into the pocket of Dev’s mac. “Besides, sometimes the cabs won’t pick me up from the kerb, and I didn’t want to call the dispatch and have a long wait.”  She spoke freely, but halted as she saw Dev’s shoulders tense.

 

He frowned. “But they _ought_ to treat you just as they do everyone else. As with all trades involving public custom--”

 

“Yeah, well, reality’s one thing, people are another.” Monica sucked her teeth, making a dismissive sound. “Human beings, eh? No-one always does what they ought; we'd live in a different world if they did. Oxford’s all right but it’s not Paradise. I’m accustomed to it.”

Dev was blushing, but persisted. “Don’t pretend that it doesn’t bother you. Every time you make that noise, I know.”

It was hard not to frown at him, so she did. “ _What_ noise?”

 

Endeavour leaned back against the sink, crossed his arms, and – _schwipps --_ sucked his teeth in a loud, nearly perfect imitation that made them both collapse in laughter.

 

“Oh! You sound like one of my aunties!” she finally gasped.  “I've never heard an English lad do that so well.” Grasping a way to put the uncomfortable topic aside, she turned away and got the teapot out of the cupboard. “Right, then, let's leave it. I’m at home and all of that’s outside.”

 

“But I know what racialism is --“

 

“ _Please_ , Dev. It’s a big subject, and I’ve had enough trouble for one day. Can’t we simply be good company for one another now?”

 

The kettle whistled, and Monica changed the subject as she crossed the room. “The patient’s condition is stable, though he won’t be out of danger for some time. And that’s the last bit of the outside world I can manage tonight.”

 

“We shouldn't really discuss the case, by the way,” Dev said, placing the milk and sugar on the small table.

 

“Why not?”

 

“Confidentiality and police procedure.”

 

“Dev, I was _there_ ,” Monica countered. “Whose business is it if it isn’t mine?”

 

Looking away, he sighed. “I shouldn’t even be here now, if one wants to be strict about it.”

 

Monica took a breath. “Do you want to leave, then?”

 

He met her eyes. “Absolutely not.”

 

She exhaled. “I understand that it's police business, but I'm talking to you, not strangers on the bus. And the story’s all over hospital now. Every nosy parker’s talking.”

 

“Even more reason for you to be cautious. Do tell me if you hear anything unusual, but I need to be at least somewhat impartial.” Dev pulled out both chairs. “Just be careful about what you say and where you go. That's all I ask.”

 

A sarcastic reply about acquiring a hard shell from London life nearly slipped from her mouth, but she bit it back. It wasn't even true. Monica could handle conflict, but she had no hard shell. Even her patients thought that she was a bit too soft-hearted, too sensitive. Such emotional weakness might explain her occasional migraines.

 

“Thank you, Dev. I will.” She avoided his gaze by lifting the lid of the teapot, as though to check how it was steeping, as though she hadn’t made tea thousands of times for herself and others.

 

“’Tis Friday,” Morse said. His gaze wandered, and she wondered if his mind had already strayed back to work.

 

“So ‘tis. I’m off to the garage bright and early tomorrow.”

 

Attention recaptured he blinked. “Garage?”

 

Monica gave him a small smile. “Yes, my Vespa needs an oil change and looking over. It will only take half an hour at Anthony Shakespeare’s. He calms fussy motors, cars and scooters alike, for fair prices.”

 

“Shakespeare?” Dev accepted the cup of tea she poured for him. “Thank you. Was the Bard reincarnated on the mechanical stage?” he asked wryly.

Monica giggled. “No, Dev. Tony Shakespeare's Jamaican. Not a common surname but it does turn up in the Commonwealth on occasion. Somehow it feels right that a mechanic with such a good reputation has such a memorable name. Come along with me if you like.”

“I brought work notes home—“

“Of course, you’re busy…” Gaze averted, she set down her teacup; her fingers pulled at the tablecloth, pleating a fold into its smooth surface.

Morse touched her hand. “But those notes will be here when we get back.”  He was pleased to see her shoulders relax; she even reached across the table and stroked his cheek. How nice it was to be looked at that way, all gentleness and affection, and how subtly terrifying. 

Endeavour didn’t quite know how to return feelings. He’d surprised himself by agreeing to accompany her to this Shakespeare person’s garage. Morse was far more interested in cars than scooters, but why not go? A small change in routine might sharpen his mind, and it wouldn’t be horribly difficult to spend some time with Monica. Garages were full of distractions. Without the structure of a date, he could avoid discussing personal feelings.

Endeavour rubbed his forehead. “Come over after we finish our tea. If you like.” Going across to Dev’s flat meant music, and usually a crossword for him, and usually piles of notes he’d brought home. He worked while Monica darned stockings or did something equally quiet.

 

Tonight, that did not suit her mood. “Mm, no. Tonight I’m going to sleep early.” She poured out a little more tea. “But I’ve another question for you first, Mr. Morse.” Monica leaned slightly forward, bosom first, and winked.

 

The last bits of tension in his expression relaxed as he smiled at her.  “Ooh, ‘ave you, Miss?”

 

 “Coo, don’t I _just_. This isn’t about Shakespeare’s Garage.” She lifted her cup, sipped, and looked him in the eye. “I’d like to ask you out on a date for Saturday night.”

 

…

Thank you for reading!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note that certain liberties have been taken re: historical facts about British oil companies and their employees in Iran during the 20th century.


	6. Shakespeare’s Garage

_Saturday morning_

_A roadside on the outskirts of Oxford_

Saying yes to Monica felt so easy, Morse thought, because she didn’t ask him for much. Not in words, at least. Sometimes when they were alone, she looked at him in that caring, unguarded way, so trusting…he didn’t like to disappoint women. _Yes_ , he’d said, accepting her invitation of a date, thereby guaranteeing himself a long, tiring Saturday.

Work came first, always. It was why Endeavour now stood beside D.I. Thursday at the sloping edge of a country road at half eight on a cold Saturday morning. The Reynolds investigation still had too many missing pieces. A note he’d slid beneath Monica’s door made his excuses: sorry, but he couldn’t accompany her to her Vespa appointment at Shakespeare’s Garage. He _would_ be at her door promptly at quarter past six to escort her to her friend’s birthday party.

Exhausted by the day’s events, she’d said sweetly but firmly that she would sleep alone in her own bed last night. Endeavour slept fitfully, certain that the telephone would ring and summon him back to work on the Reynolds investigation. In the end, he’d been the one to call Thursday, apologizing for the early hour before explaining that he wanted to return to both the accident site and the hospital, and to try to get Mrs. Reynolds to give them useful information.

Work came first, but something was changing in him. Creeping back and forth between flats and beds to keep up appearances made him cross. He imagined coming home late and curling up with Monica in a big, proper bed in a high-ceilinged room, with his police-only telephone nearby. He’d pull down the shoulder of her nightgown, one of those frilly, flimsy things she liked so much, and kiss her bare skin. If she were awake, she’d make the sort of low, purring moan that always undid him, and he’d slip his tongue into her mouth while his fingers teased --

 _Be realistic, Morse._ There was only one way she’d agree to the scenario of a shared bedroom, and he wasn’t ready for that.

Rapidly eroding tire tracks crossed the shoulder of the road before vanishing downhill into weeds. Pale gouges marred a stout tree where Peregrine Reynolds’ car had struck.

“What we see here, it’s consistent what the doctor told us. The fellow that had it in for Reynolds cut him before releasing the brake, because it wasn’t the car that caused the most injury. As for drink, it was spilled on him. Only a trace of alcohol in his blood.”  Thursday made his way down the hill. “Right, Morse, both of us saw this place yesterday. Our lads went over his car and this place with a fine-toothed comb,” he continued, referring to the policemen that had preceded them. “Found nothing. What evidence do you think they missed?”

Endeavour squatted beside a few boot-shaped footprints, now barely discernible, in the dirt between the paved road and the grassy shoulder.  “Small feet,” he said.

“Aye, already noted. The man our witness, Miss Hicks, saw was no giant.”

 Morse took a few steps alongside the footprints. “Short legs, too, or a constrained gait. Perhaps another injured person with reasons to leave the scene? Didn’t care for Peregrine Reynolds enough to stay with him, or they thought he was dead. When they found out he wasn’t, they tried to finish the job the next morning.”

“Hmm. Possible, but we need a suspect. We’ve seen all we can here.” Thursday gestured at the empty hillside. “Let’s go, Morse. I want to dine at home tonight.”

“Of course, sir. I’ve plans tonight myself.”

“Oh? And who’s she, when she’s at home?”

 _I really ought to tell him._ Morse opened his mouth, but only murmured, “A nice girl. Still getting to know each other.”

“She probably has the patience of a saint if she puts up with a sparkling conversationalist like you. Treat her kindly, lad. Let’s carry on, then.”  D.I. Thursday began to ascend the hill. “Mrs. Reynolds may be more talkative today, or Peregrine – must have had a tough childhood, saddled with that name – Reynolds himself may be awake.” He breathed heavily as he ascended the slope, and Morse came forward to help.  “I’m not so frail _yet_ ,” the older man said, refusing Endeavour’s outstretched hand with an impatient gesture. Reaching the road, he paused, drawing in deep breaths of cold air.

“Marian Reynolds didn’t appear particularly concerned.” Endeavour filled the silence, pretending not to notice Thursday’s fatigue. “Something was a bit off about that house.”

 “A house is not always a home,” Thursday said cryptically. Endeavour gave him a sidelong look, but decided not to pursue it.

Morse nodded. “Yes – that’s it. Not many personal things in it.”

“No? I saw family photos, those landscapes she painted herself, and those bloody awful enormous portraits.”

 “Oversize portraits that look like something you’d see in a dictator’s palace, or public rooms of landed gentry. The Reynolds are neither,” Morse replied. “It was like a theatrical setting, but to show the audience that they’re of a particular social class.” _Takes one to know one._ He’d have chosen some of that elegant furniture himself, had he the money. Cabdriver’s sons liked nice things too.

Weak sunlight broke through the clouds as the men slowly returned to the car.  “Iran has produced notable artworks: painting, tiles, textile, architecture,” Morse continued. “Yet nothing in that room, other than that carpet near us, looked Iranian. Instead Marian Reynolds decorated the place with the sort of crystal and china one typically sees in middle-class English homes.” He stopped, thinking.

“And…?” Thursday looked at him curiously.

“We can easily find evidence to prove that they lived in Iran, but how did it affect them? There _is_ something odd about erasing nearly all evidence of life abroad from one’s personal surroundings. Think of other investigations we’ve done. Homes of people with Indian connections – they lived there, or their grandparents lived there, Anglo-Indian connections -- they typically display Indian ornaments, or photographs.” Now it was Morse who paused for breath.

“Suppose,” Thursday picked up the thread, “Mrs. Reynolds didn’t get on well with the other expatriates? Young woman marries a man of means. Here, all is well. In Iran, she was too new: new money, new manners. Didn’t fit in, snubbed by the other wives. Wasn’t interested in learning about the history or people of Iran. Indeed, she’s so _very_ uninterested that she paints English farms instead of the ancient lands and monuments just outside her window.”

Morse continued, “Over time, she resentments towards her husband. No divorce, for the sake of the children, but returning to Oxford doesn’t fix the marriage.”

Thursday shook his head. “You didn’t sleep, thinking about this. Or have you learnt to read the female mind?”

Morse imagined Monica, miles away, unfolding his note to learn that he’d cancelled an outing with her yet again. “If only.” He unlocked the car.

…

_Monica and Endeavour’s building, Oxford_

Thankfully, the corridor was empty. Monica quietly let herself into Dev’s flat. His morning note hadn’t surprised her but she hoped that he really would show up for their date. By this evening, her Vespa would be freshly tuned, and she’d have her evening out, Dev or no Dev.

Dialing a number from memory, she waited for the switchboard operator’s voice. “Hello, Mrs. Jones, it’s Monica Hicks. How are you? Me-- quite well, thanks, considering. Oh, it’s kind of you to say that. May I please trouble you to put me through to Head Nurse Green? Thanks so much.”

Head Nurse Green’s voice came down the phone. “Nurse Hicks, I told you to take time off work, did I not? Are you well?”

“Yes, ma’am. Please, I only wanted to ask…how is Mr. Reynolds?”

Her voice changed, becoming clipped, as though someone were listening. “Poorly, but stable. No visible sign of infection. The doctor has him heavily medicated and not saying much. That’s all I can say. Mrs. Reynolds, his wife, came by today. Weeping and walking, or pacing, more like it. Beautifully dressed, all in gray and black, but the man’s not gone yet! She didn’t stay long.”

“Ah.” Monica wished that she’d been there to say something kind to the injured man’s wife, and to satisfy her own growing curiosity. “Thank you, ma’am. And you? This must all be rather difficult. How are you?”

There was a pause, and then Head Nurse Green spoke gently. “Kind of you to ask. But then you would, wouldn’t you? Listen to me. Go out today, find something to do or someone to speak with that has nothing to do with this. Be satisfied with your efforts and move on. Time will show you it’s the best way.”  

“If I’d just seen more—”

“Don’t blame yourself! You did very well indeed, slowed the bleeding down. Quite brave, though no-one may have told you so. I’ve work to do now. Don’t show your face in this hospital until Monday, unless you come in as a patient.”

“Thank you, ma’am.” Monica smiled. “I’ll be there Monday as usual.”

Head Nurse Green’s tone was kindly, even if her words were not. “Grow a thicker skin, child. You’ll need it.”

…

_The hospital, Oxford_

If the doctor held his nose any higher, he’d have been staring at the ceiling. “Sorry, gentlemen, but we’ve no new information for you today. Mr. Reynolds was just now administered medication, a powerful soporific. That means it will make him sleep,” he added in a condescending tone.

“Latin: _sopor_ , later French term, _soporifique._ ” Morse replied dryly.

The doctor blinked at the younger detective. “Indeed. It’s useful to provide layman’s terms to those outside the profession.”

Thursday saw thunderclouds forming in Morse’s expression and spoke firmly. “Back to the matter at hand, _Doctor_. We aren’t here to disturb the patient. We’re reminding you of the importance of accurately recording anything he says, drugged state or not, and communicating that to the Police. Any detail may be useful to this investigation.”

“Clues can wait, Detective. Mr. Reynolds won’t awaken for hours, and when he does, anything he says will make little sense,” the doctor snapped. His surname was Amies, which Morse thought a bad match given his lack of any outwardly amicable qualities. If Dr. Amies was this rude in conversation, he must terrify the unfortunate patients in his surgery.

His own mention of Latin reminded Morse of the strange business card that Monica had found in Reynolds’ pocket just after his admittance to hospital. “We’d like to see the patient’s personal effects, again, please.” At Thursday’s questioning look, he explained. “That card, from yesterday.”

“Head Nurse Green deals with that sort of thing,” Dr. Amies said dismissively.

Unruffled, Thursday stood up and replaced his hat. “Of course. Such a capable woman. Good day.” 

Morse waited until they had completely left Dr. Amies’ office before asking, “Think he knows something he isn’t saying?”

“Unlikely suspect. All sound, fury, and self-importance.” Thursday shrugged. “Even in anger, a doctor would make neat, surgical cuts, don’t you think? Get it done quick as thought. Or he’d put Reynolds to permanent sleep with one of his _soporifics_.” He drawled the last word, producing a wry smile from Morse.

As they made for the nurses’ station, Morse lowered his voice. “So other than the wife, who’s angry enough to want Reynolds to suffer? Had this involved business or spying, they wouldn’t have botched the job.”

“Inquiries were made to Scotland Yard yesterday. Nothing on Reynolds,” Thursday said as the Head Nurse approached. “All he did in Iran was work for the oil companies. If he had anything to do with espionage, he played so deep no-one can find it.”

Efficient and cordial, Head Nurse Green led Thursday and Morse to a locked room and retrieved Peregrine Reynolds’ personal effects from one of a series of tall file cabinets. Removing the items from a large envelope, she spread them out on a table. “Here they are again.” She looked at the handwritten entry on a small form attached to the envelope. “The nurse on duty was Miss Hicks. She isn’t on today, but she phoned earlier to ask after Mr. Reynolds’ condition.”

“Did she?” Morse knew that Monica didn’t have a telephone. Had she gone out to a call box or used his?

“Yes, rather nice lass, but a little soft for this profession. No-one else phoned except a few people from his company. Wife visited this morning.”

Thursday locked eyes with Morse. “How long did she stay?”

“Half an hour. Must have been difficult for the poor woman to see him in such a bad way. She was in and out of the room, pacing the halls, crying, hardly spoke to anyone.”

Morse made a note of the nurse’s observations. Perhaps Marian Reynolds’ grief was delayed, and she now regretted her earlier resentment of her husband.

Next, Morse examined the objects, turning them over with the tip of a pencil. Everything was unchanged from yesterday.  A packet of cough drops, loose coins. Wallet. No handkerchief. But –

The business card that Monica had described to him was gone.

“Did anyone else ask for these personal effects, yesterday or today, ma’am? His wife?”

“No, not her or anyone else. Is something wrong?”

“A business card was here yesterday; now it’s gone. It was recorded here, and both myself and D.I. Thursday saw it yesterday.” He pointed at the small form that inventoried Peregrine Reynold’s belongings.

Nurse Green frowned. “Oh, dear. The envelope was closed when I brought it out to you. Everything in his pockets should be here, according to procedure.”

“Nurse Green, how are people admitted to this room?” Thursday asked.

“Only nurses or hospital clerks are admitted. Usually, a clerk goes back to retrieve the patient record. They would have to borrow the key from whomever is working with patient records during that shift.”

“Is this door ever left unlocked?”

The woman sat up straight, “Shouldn’t be, but it is on occasion, during busy periods. Most of the time this area is locked or at least attended if the door is open. Mind you, we discipline forgetful staff.” A tired frown creased her forehead. “We do our best, Detective. I’ll search the drawer myself. Surely we’ll find that card.” Her hands opened and closed anxiously as she stood and led them back to the file cabinets.

Seeing that Nurse Green was upset, Endeavour tried Monica’s method: apply compliments and clarify. “Ma’am, I trust that you keep things secure and organized here. I didn’t mean to imply otherwise.” He tucked his pencil and notepad back into his pocket and took a deep breath. Should he formally question Monica? First, he must disclose everything to Thursday. Morse couldn’t quarrel with his bread and butter. The experienced D.I. would never cast aside his ethics and allow Morse to question her. How would Monica react? Unease, certainly. Tears, maybe. Well, there was nothing for it; he’d try a few leading questions during tonight’s date instead.

Nurse Green pulled open the drawer marked _Re – Ri_ , began to look through it, and stopped. “Ooh…Jesus, Mary, and Joseph! Why didn’t I see that before?”

Thursday and Morse looked down at Nurse Green’s fingers as she flipped the tabbed file separators back and forth.

_Reynolds, Quinton Bartholomew_

_Reynolds, Richard James_

_Reynolds, Oliver Eustace_

“Lazy, thieving git, whoever they are,” Nurse Green said, scowling. “Hard to cover up a theft when you don’t bother to put things back in alphabetical order.”

…

_Inside the Garage and Mechanical Repair Shop owned by Mr. Anthony Shakespeare, Monica’s friend_

_Off the beaten track, Oxford_

 

“Beautiful machine.” Anthony Shakespeare had smooth, dark skin, was a little stout around the middle, and liked an audience. He gestured above his head as though delivering a formal speech to the handful of customers, friends, and hangers-on scattered around the large room. Its corrugated metal door was open to the street. “The Vespa 150 VBB is a thing of wonder, hear me?”

“That’s why I bought it, Mr. Shakespeare,” Monica replied, “and it’s thanks to you that it still _runs_ beautifully, no matter how it looks with a few scrapes.” She smiled, feeling comfortable. For several months now, she’d been accepted by the handful of West Indian men who visited Shakespeare’s Garage to socialize or work on cars. Any salacious men’s talk ended whenever she dropped off her scooter or waited while Mr. Shakespeare made minor repairs. Sometimes other West Indian women appeared and she could chat with them.

“Aha! It won’t stay wonderful if you don’t maintain it better, Hicksie. Two months since you last brought it in! TWO. MONTHS. What sort of hours they got you working?”

“Most days I spend at the hospital, yes, unless I’m with friends or –” Monica bit back the words.

“What were you gonna say?” He lay a long index finger alongside his nose. “There’s a man, I think.”

Monica shot him a mock glare. “Leave it, Shakespeare! You know my friends are girls. Other times I go to the library.”

“Nah, it’s a lad. You’ve got that look about you.” The other men in the garage laughed. “Miss Hicksie put down her books long enough to snare some fellow. Be careful who you trust, love,” Anthony Shakespeare said seriously. “Some men crawl about looking for a nurse with purse. Happened to me own sister.”

“Not this man,” Monica said, unguardedly. Dev, for all his apparent individualism, had middle-class aspirations and was proud of earning and controlling his own money.

Most of the men at Shakespeare’s Garage were attached to a wife or someone else, and treated Monica as a cousin or sister. Oxford was different to London for West Indian women, in her experience. They arrived in Britain as wives or girlfriends, leaving the Caribbean only after their men had earned enough money to secure their passage. Faced with a shortfall of the unattached, the West Indian men socialized with local women instead, or at least that was how she had heard it explained. One woman from Liverpool had told Monica that she found dating difficult because she was a blood relation to so many people in the Black communities there.

The business of finding another human being to care for you was all rather complicated. She supposed that things could be worse; in parts of America it was still illegal for Monica and Dev to date, even though it was 1966, and the United Kingdom had passed the Race Relations Act nearly a full year earlier.

Once, Monica overheard one of the younger men at the garage say he’d never date a nurse because the women earned too much, more than many men. Only a man should be head of the household. _Surely a couple could sort that out and pay more attention to keeping a roof over their heads,_ Monica thought, but hadn’t dared say anything.

Beyond such comments, Monica found Shakespeare’s Garage a friendly place. However, this little pocket of community knew little of her private life until today.

“So there _is_ a man, she admits it. Who is he?” One of the men asked. “Bring him.”

“Eh, Monica?” a different man called.

“He…works long hours. He’s a –” Fedoras, porkpie hats and flat caps swiveled to face the open garage door. Monica turned in her chair to see Endeavour Morse standing in the clear afternoon light.

“He’s here,” she finished, and smiled at him. He looked tired, rumpled, and had they been alone she’d have given him a kiss.

“Good afternoon, everyone,” Endeavour said into the sudden, awkward silence. “I…was looking for Monica…and I’ve found her.”

“So you have.” Shakespeare strode forward, wiping his hands on a rag. “Shakespeare. This is my garage.”

“Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Shakespeare. Morse.” Morse shook Shakespeare’s hand. His careful use of the honorific and respectful manner of speaking helped, but Monica still felt tension in the room. Other White English and some Irish people came to the garage, but no-one here knew Morse.

Endeavour smiled gently in her direction. “Monica sings your praises.” Shakespeare glanced at Monica. “Does she! And when will you bring in your car?”

“When I have one, sir,” Morse replied, which earned him a grin and heavy clap on the shoulder.

“You do that. The scooter’s done. Hicksie is ready to be collected.” Shakespeare raised his eyebrows at Monica.

 _Hicksie_? Endeavour didn’t know Monica as well as he’d assumed. “We finished work a bit early, so I thought to see if you were still here.”

Monica had paid fifteen minutes ago, lingering only to chat, so she buttoned her coat and gathered her handbag. “Right. Good of you. Well, I’ve plenty left to do this afternoon, so shall we --”

Shakespeare was still curious about Endeavour. “What sort of work do you do, Morse?”

“I’m a policeman –” Chair legs scraped against the concrete as one of the younger men got up and left, muttering something about not having a moment’s peace in this world. Someone else said, “Thought I’d seen him before”. One man narrowed his eyes at Monica.

 _What I fool I am,_ she thought as she pulled her gloves over trembling hands. A fleeting pain seized her heart. Had she betrayed the men of this garage? Several had spoken of being stopped by police in London, Birmingham and elsewhere for looking ‘suspicious’ – one middle-aged father was stopped three times between his factory job and his home. She ought never to have told Dev about this place. She wasn’t certain that Shakespeare’s garage met all licensing and regulations, and Dev could be an inflexible  jobsworth at inopportune times. Heat washed over her face as she crossed the open space, her thoughts whirling as she tried to compose a sentence that would apologize to Shakespeare without shaming Dev.

“Investigations, mostly,” Endeavour said in response to something Shakespeare had asked him. “But I’m off duty.” He shrugged broadly, as though declaring himself harmless.

The two men made small talk as though she weren’t trying to leave. _Nice shop you have here. Me? Fond of the recent Jaguar models. Oh, so a fellow from a different garage asked you for help with a Jag? What garage was that? Must be interesting to work on a Jag. Sounds like you’re very good at it!_

Nervously, Monica interrupted. “Shakespeare, thank you so much. I know my 150 will purr like a kitten.” Grasping Dev’s sleeve, she tried to pull him towards the door, but the older man’s voice stopped them.

“I expect you at the party tonight, Hicksie. You, too, Morse. Don’t let our Monica go alone. It’s not always safe for ladies at the weekend.”

The churning sensation in Monica’s belly faded. “Thank you, Shakespeare.”

Morse looked confused, as though he understood something had happened that he couldn’t quite sort out. “Thank you for the invitation, Mr. Shakespeare. She’ll be safe with me.” He nodded in the general direction of the remaining men.

Endeavour followed Monica to her Vespa, which was parked in front of the shop. “What’s going on?” he whispered as she stowed her handbag in the compartment under the seat.

“Never had a man here with me before,” she said, eyes cast down towards her goggles. She put them on and started the motor, but left the Vespa sitting on its brake.

“Monica,” he said, unconvinced. Something had happened in the garage; why wouldn’t she translate it for him?

“Really, they’ve never seen me with anyone.” She gestured at the scooter. “You drive.”

“It’s your scooter.”

“Yes, and no man likes to ride pillion behind a woman.” Their audience still watched from the open door of Shakespeare’s Garage. “Let’s go, Dev.”

Morse shook his head but didn’t argue, settling into the driver’s seat while she climbed on behind.

“He’s nice, Shakespeare. I’m glad you asked me out tonight.” Endeavour found it easier to say the words over his shoulder, without making eye contact.

“Oh. Good.” Surprised, Monica didn’t know what else to say. Dev rarely said how he felt about her or anything that she did with him beyond _very nice_ or _well, that’s all right_ or _thank you_. She slid her arms around his waist and hugged him, quickly, as the scooter left the kerb.

The Vespa’s motor did indeed purr like a kitten, too loudly to talk in the dry, cold wind. Monica pressed close to him, feeling the warmth of his body through his coat. The macintosh he wore was too thin, she decided.  Calculating her Christmas savings, she realized she hadn’t the funds to buy him a new coat – not that he’d accept it, and buying an overcoat for a boyfriend – would he even describe himself as that, or even as a lover? -- would make it seem that she set her hopes far too high. A warm scarf would be a safer choice.

 _Lover_. _There’s a word to get girls into trouble._ Unbidden and inconvenient, the feeling of physical arousal that had plagued her for the past few days rushed back. Often, she felt this way before and after her monthly period, but at other times the feelings turned up like some sort of randy feminine fever. The physical desire, the easy arousal – the strong sensual feelings were hormonal, she knew, but they often felt dangerous. She had rubbed up a previous boyfriend the wrong way when she dared to make the first move one evening. _Girls shouldn’t want it so much. Get help,_ he’d snarled, and refused to see her again _._ Hurt and confused, Monica had been tentative ever since. It wasn’t as though any man would do; sex meant something, to her even if she couldn’t imagine marriage with the person. With Dev, she wanted more than touch; she wanted him for himself.

Caution didn’t suit her any longer. Dev had promised his time to her tonight. Already she was thinking of attending Sunday Vespers instead of morning Mass. _I’m not ashamed for wanting so much of life._ Bracing her feet on the floor rails, Monica pushed forward on the seat and pressed her breasts against Dev’s back. _Did he even notice? Be a little bolder._ She slid her gloved fingers beneath one side of his mac, then delved further, unbuttoning his jacket accidentally on purpose. He jerked in response as she stroked his chest.

Endeavour paused at a crossing, waiting for pedestrians. His head turned sharply to the side. He couldn’t see her, but she read his movement clearly. “What’s your game?” he asked in a low, growling voice -- bothered or aroused, she couldn’t tell which -- just loudly enough for her to hear.

Monica pinched his nipple, making him gasp as she withdrew her fingers from his clothes. Her full, soft lips brushed the curve of his ear. “Wait and see.”

…

Next chapter: a party with dancing, Monica’s friend Patience, questionable behavior, and vice.

My sincere apologies for the long delay between chapters. Thank you for reading!


	7. Bang!

 

…

And wait Endeavour did. Once indoors, Monica primly kissed his cheek. “Dev, please eat something with protein in it and have a lie down.”

“And you?”

“I’ll be ready at half past six. Come and get me.”  With that, she winked at him and closed herself away inside her flat before he could protest.

Alone in his own flat, Endeavour put his notepad down by the telephone and exhaled. _What the devil’s gotten into Monica?_ That sly nipple pinch had surprised him, and oh, the way her breath warmed his ear for a bare few seconds as she told him he’d have to wait…she was playing with him.

Although Monica’s actions hardly compared, Endeavour knew about sex beyond the missionary position. Police work, the Army, and even academia were places where one could hardly avoid hearing about them, whether it was through boasting, lies, half-remembered facts, or criminal cases. Little about the physical part of sex surprised him. Indeed, he’d learned useful things: what not to do, what pleased him and others. Above all, to make certain the desire was mutual before anyone undressed.

Endeavour knew something else, too. He’d never be so vulgar and common as to brag about it, but he knew how to lead a woman to the height of pleasure with his hands or tongue. Sometimes both at once. These practical skills produced satisfaction for the women, and a gratifying confidence in his own abilities. Out of the blue, Endeavour wondered how it would feel to do it out of affection instead of power.

“She’ll probably _melt_ ,” he said aloud to the empty, cold room. Endeavour liked the way Monica shivered whenever he licked and bit her neck. Her face took on a soft expression whenever he kissed her hello or goodbye. What would she do if – no, _when_ he --

The telephone’s ring seemed pointedly loud, as if to scold him about the direction of his thoughts. Work came first. Shouldn’t it? He shook his head as if to clear it, and grabbed the receiver.

“Morse.”

…

_Early Saturday afternoon, Oxford_

_Outside Club Crastino, on a street in a barely respectable area_

The lines around Fred Thursday’s dark eyes crinkled along with his anticipatory smile. “Not easy to keep a private club private when the members are subject to foul play.” He braked and parked the car at the curb of a narrow street that looked dark even in the daytime. Facing Morse, he continued. “Someone stole that business card? Small beer now, because a chap from upper management at Reynolds’ company came in to tell us what the victim can’t. Reynolds has at least one friend.”

“Any other oil company businessmen belong to this _Club Crastino_?” Morse’s sharp gaze swept the area as he got out of the car. “Doesn’t seem like a place for the university set; they’d have made  the management get the Latin right.”  

Two other cars from Crowley Police Station and a van were parked nearby.  “Look at this!” Morse said. “They’re nearly broadcasting our plans.” The tallest and stoutest members of the police force stood beside a large, arched door, which looked as sturdy as Police Constable Jim Strange‘s biceps. “Any viable suspects will be out the back door by now.”

“We’ll see,” Thursday replied. “Reynolds’ colleague said that they pursue the usual vices here: drink, women, and light gambling. Just organized enough to maintain the proper licensing.”

Morse frowned. “Any link to established gangs?”

“None that we know of yet. They court a posher trade,” Thursday said dryly. “Social climbers, boys unable to enter the old boys’ club, no matter how much money they earn.”

Thursday and Morse greeted Strange and Parry, a new PC, with a nod.

“Better hope they open to our first knock,” Strange said, assessing the door, “or we’ll be here all day trying to break it down.”

Thursday strode forward. “Save your shoulders, lads.” He pressed a button mounted above a speaker set into the door.

A voice crackled through the little box. “Who?”

“D. I. Thursday, Oxford Police.”

More crackling noises, and a pause. Thursday raised his arm and pounded three times on the door with the side of his fist. “This can go hard or it can go easy.”

Metal scraped, the sound of someone pulling back a bolt, and the door swung inward. A fiftyish man dressed in an expensive-looking dark suit looked back at the Oxford Police. “Good afternoon, Detective…gentlemen,” he said, with a nod.

“And you are?”

The man sighed. “Expecting you. Timothy Lansford. Come in.”

If Morse had thought the interior of Reynolds’ home displayed internal conflict, Club Crastino took it to a curious new level. Long narrow windows at the end of the room were uncovered to allow daylight, their heavy black curtains pulled back. The daylight illuminated dark wood furnishings with conservative lines, a serviceable bar with a row of gilt-framed mirrors behind it, and framed reproductions of mock-Gainsborough-era paintings of women and a few young men each figure nude or nearly so.

The policemen’s heavy footfalls were dulled by the imitation Aubusson carpets underfoot. Garish by daylight, they probably looked rich enough after the various frosted glass lighting fixtures were switched on at night. It all fit someone’s idea of what was respectable, except for the flocked velvet wallpaper visible behind all the mirrors and gilt. Morse frowned; it was a deep, bloody red with fleur-de-lis patterns, and looked as though it would peel itself off the walls and chase people during their nightmares. A young man in shirtsleeves stood near a stack of cigarette cartons on the bar, glancing nervously from Thursday to Lansford.

Spreading his hands open wide, Timothy Lansford stood in the middle of the large room. “Come on, ask me your questions.”

Thursday nodded towards the young man. “Not going to introduce us?”

“Smith works for me, orders supplies and sometimes tends bar. I own the place. Ask _me,_ ” Lansford said a bit defensively, straightening his well-cut suit jacket. Only Lansford’s hair betrayed his line of business. Such hair it was! It swooped skyward into a quiff held in place by a gravity-defying pomade. Morse doubted it would melt in heavy rain or fly out of place in a high wind.

Thursday asked the usual questions while Morse and the other policemen made a sweep of the club, some looking behind the bar, others checking the storeroom and staff areas.

“Admission to Club Crastino is limited to members,” Lansford said, speaking quickly. “Our clientele? The best of our city’s business class, though we have visitors from London too, and as far north as Birmingham. Been working in clubs fifteen years, I have – so I know about _you_ , D.I. Thursday, though you’ve never met me. Oh, no; I’d remember. What’s that? Women? Never any women members, it’s not the done thing, is it? No! any young ladies on the premises are not for sale, if that’s what you’re implying. I wouldn’t let a ponce in here. Rings down the tone. The ladies are admitted as _dates_. I may introduce some of them to members but… no. Any financial arrangements, well, that’s personal. I’m never involved…

“…No, sir, everyone liked Reynolds. Never a chatty fellow, but he kept his accounts with us current. He did bring…dates. Same girl for the past year or so. Reynolds took his wife on holiday this summer, so we didn’t see him. Tried to keep his trouble and strife, I mean wife, satisfied! Yes, Mr. Thursday, our members do confide in me…they trust me as you would a friend. I’m very careful with information.”

“Indeed?” Morse asked. “Careful enough to use it to your benefit?”

Lansford scowled. “I resent the implication that I would lower myself to blackmail. Why, if anyone should have been stabbed it was _me_ , out of anger at my discretion.” The club owner’s eyes quickly shifted towards a door at the far end of the room. The other policemen hadn’t reached it yet, and Morse hadn’t noticed it earlier. He strode over for a closer look; the narrow door was covered with the dreadful wallpaper, neatly lining up to fit the pattern so that it blended into the wall.

“What’s in here?” Morse asked.

“Uh, leads to my office.” Lansford’s voice rose sharply as Morse walked over and pushed against the door. “Oi! Those records are _private_ , young-fellow-me-lad!”

Morse stepped inside the small room and halted, making eye contact with a different man in shirtsleeves. The man bent over a metal rubbish bin, also covered in flocked wallpaper. Lansford was consistent about décor, if not the truth.  The bin was filled with torn and cut pages from ledger books that lay open on the desk. Cold air streamed through the tall, open window. Morse spied a heavy, ornate glass lighter on the desk. He’d interrupted something. “Oxford Police. Name’s Morse. Got questions for you.”

Slowly, the man straightened up, narrowing his eyes. “Nothing to tell.”

Metal shone in the man’s clasped hand, and Morse glimpsed the pointed ends of a pair of scissors.

“Listen, sir,” Morse said, trying to keep thing calm. “This will go easier if you just tell me who you are and what you’re doing.”

The man looked roughly Morse’s own height and age; he also looked angry. Raising the scissors, he held them at waist height, elbow bent, and took one step back towards the window, which faced onto an alley. “Get back.”

The way that the man held the scissors suggested that he was no stranger to knife fighting. “Come on, you don’t want to do this.” Morse edged closer to the desk, within reach of the heavy lighter.

“Don’t be so sure, mate,” the man sneered, shifting his weight. Any second now.

“Did you attack Reynolds?”

For a moment, the man looked less confident. “No, I didn’t get him. You lot will never sort that out. Sod off!” And he lunged.

Morse leapt jerkily aside, just far enough away from the blades. Both men turned in a half-circle; Morse felt for the lighter, seized it, held it, tried to deliver a roundhouse blow to the man’s head with it, but the man bobbed and weaved like a boxer.

A wave of feeling – not anger, but a sense of being fed up – washed over Morse. _Not this time._ Driven by reflexes and a flash of anger, he kicked, hitting the man’s hand so that he dropped the scissors, following through with fist to the man’s chin. Before the man could punch back with his left, Morse seized his right forearm, twisted it behind his back, and used his weight to push the man against the flocked-velvet wallpaper with a satisfying _thud_. It was messy schoolyard fighting. He didn’t feel guilty or cowardly in the least.

P.C. Strange’s boots clattered on the bare floorboards. “Sir!”

Breathing heavily, Morse let Strange grab the man and take over. “Take him out of here, P.C. Strange. I’ll have the lads box these papers up. That window was open when I came in – someone else may have already gone through it.”

“Right. I’ll get Parry out to check the block, sir.”

“There is _never_ any violence at this club,” Lansford was shouting as Morse returned to the main room. “Never! Grudges, maybe but we don’t allow fighting! Whoever had it in for Peregrine Reynolds, well, it ain’t one of us. This is a club for _gentlemen_.”

Fred Thursday spoke sternly. “Someone tried to gut Mr. Reynolds like a fish. It may not be homicide yet, but if he doesn’t pull through, believe me: this place will shut down quick and the police will take this place apart down to the floor boards.  The next time you tell such tales, it’ll be in court.”

…

It was nearly four when they emerged from the flocked red velvet womb of Club Crastino.  A pretty woman turned the corner as Morse waited on the curb for Thursday. Fashionably cut tan wool coat, matching hat perched atop strawberry blonde hair of a color likely unknown to nature. She held a key or some other metallic object in her hand, pointed forward as though ready to run someone through – not a bad idea in an area like this one. Her jaw was tense as though she held back some strong emotion; then her expression changed as she saw the police vehicles, and she froze in her tracks. 

Just then Timothy Lansford, flanked by D.I. Thursday and P.C. Strange, emerged from the club. Lansford blinked in the pale sunlight as though entering an alien atmosphere, and turned his head towards the street corner. As their eyes met, the woman’s shoulders jerked. She turned and ran.

Morse didn’t wait. “Miss, stop! Police!” Shoes pounding along the stone pavement, he gave chase.

Her light-colored coat was easy to follow for half a block.  Morse hadn’t run full tilt for a while, and either desperation or strong legs gave the young woman an advantage. Still, Monica’s insistence on vitamins and balanced meals had paid off, because Morse was gaining ground just a lorry drove in front of him.

Gasping, Endeavour didn’t know whether to thank God or his reflexes; he jerked backward onto the curb just as the shocked driver stopped the vehicle with a cacophony of squealing brakes and metal.

“Gunna meet yer maker early, ya git!” the young man bellowed, pushing open the door and leaping down to the pavement.

Morse had enough breath for a retort. “You were going faster than the legal limit!”

The younger man roared, “It was you as ran into the road! I coulda squashed ya flat! Maybe I should -“ his hands balled into fists.

Heavy footsteps signaled the arrival of Jim Strange, who had followed Morse. “All right, Morse?”

“Yeah,” Morse panted, gesturing in the direction the woman had taken. “Find her.” P.C. Strange ran off, leaving Morse facing the lorry driver.

 “Sorry, gov,” the young man said, blushing crimson. “Didn’t know it was police business. Are ye hurt, sir?”

“No.” He rounded the end of the vehicle and looked the length of the street, his mouth open as he gulped air. “Just glad you hit that brake.” He saw neither the woman nor Strange.

“Are ye going to arrest me and take me to Cowley Station?” the young man continued. “Usually I’m careful, but got behind schedule, and –”

Morse held up his hand. “We aren’t looking for you!”

Words kept tumbling from the lorry driver. “I really can’t get the sack. I’ve got my mother and sister to look after.”

Morse stopped looking up the street and made eye contact with the young man, who looked barely eighteen. “Nobody’s sacking you.” He tried to reassure the man. “Not unless you really thrashed the life out of those brakes.”

“What will you do? I already gave this week’s pay packet to my Mum.”

“It was an accident. No need to worry.” Morse wondered how Monica could bear it day in and day out, people wanting to unburden themselves and show their feelings. _Where was Strange?_ Earnest people unsettled him. It was so easy to hurt them, even unintentionally.

Morse sighed with relief. Strange was returning with a reddish object dangling from his hand. Strange jogged up to them and Morse extended his arm. “Wig, sir.”  His broad chest rose and fell as he caught his breath. “Thought she ran into an alley. Found this hanging on some fencing instead.”

The young man looked at Morse. “Uh, may I go, sir? Got customers waiting.”

“Right, of course. Drive more carefully from now on,” Morse replied absently; he was mentally labelling and assembling pieces of information, and he knew that he could do little more at the scene. Strange gave him a knowing look and was quiet as they rejoined their fellow police.

…

“Do what I say, lad. Keep your Saturday night.” A fatigued Thursday was quiet while he drove Morse home, but it seemed important to him to say this much.

“Yes, but –”

“As I said earlier, we’ve done what we can do for today.” Morse heard the tone of finality in Fred’s voice. He watched Oxford pass by the window. People walked quickly, perhaps intent on going home to a welcoming table, or to dress for dates, parties, nights out with groups of friends. Everyone looked as though they had a reason to hurry, someone waiting for them, someone wanting to be close to them. 

Endeavour remembered something. “Say, mind if I dash into the chemist’s?”

“Quite all right.” Thursday looked lost in thought.

Morse bought sticking plasters for his knuckles and two packets of three condoms each: one for his flat, one for Monica’s. Months might pass before they used them all, considering his and Monica’s work hours.

Upon seeing the condom packets, the young shop clerk cheekily wiggled his eyebrows. “Busy Saturday night, mate? Leave a few birds for the rest of us.”

Frowning, Morse jerked his head sideways to remind the clerk of the respectable-looking housewife browsing a nearby cosmetic display. “Mind who’s in the shop. And think _women_ , not birds, if you want their company,” Morse said in low voice. The lad had the decency to blush.

Thursday gave a start when Morse opened the passenger side door. “Ah, there you are. Off we go! I’m looking forward to seeing my Win. She won’t have to wait dinner on me for once.”

Morse’s fingers toyed with the condom packets in his coat packet. Despite all of Monica’s flirting earlier today, he honestly didn’t care what happened, just that he didn’t end the day alone. Again, he imagined the cozy bedroom with its bed large and comfortable enough for two. Sleeping, entwined. Talking before sleep with someone who understood him and wanted to listen. Sometimes, Monica did strange things in her sleep. She cried, especially when she was tired from work. At other times, she pushed at the air as though defending herself. Occasionally she stroked his hair and murmured unclear words. Sometimes Endeavour remembered to ask about her dreams, but she only looked away and said they were all nonsense.

As far as he knew, it was the only thing she lied about.

…

A series of rhythmic taps sounded against the door to Monica’s flat: the melody of the Grand March from _Aida_ , as Endeavour had insisted. She opened the door before the last note.

He looked up and took a breath. Monica wore a simple, short sleeved V-neck dress in deep pink, with dangling silver earrings in abstract, mobile-like shapes. The color and subtle shine of the metal flattered her smooth, dark skin.  

 

“You look absolutely lovely,” Morse said. What would he do to please Monica, if she still wanted to be with him after the party? After he gently removed Monica’s dangling earrings, he would suck her earlobe and kiss her neck, then her mouth. If she agreed, he’d unzip her dress, push her slip off her shoulders and kiss those too. Then he’d lick a hot trail along her spine before he knelt, clutched her hips, and turned her around to face him. Feeling heated, Endeavour pulled at his collar. He knew better than to make any suggestions to Monica, whose expression glowed with excitement about a rare party night.

 

She suspected something, though, because she caressed his freshly shaved face. “Ooh, Dev.  So handsome.” His eyelashes lowered for a moment, brushing his skin as he leant into her hand.  

 

“How shall we get there?” Endeavour asked. “Bus or scooter?”

 

“It’s cold tonight. My friend Patience and her boyfriend Charlie will stop by in his van at a quarter to seven to offer a ride. We don’t have to take the Vespa.”

 

Morse groaned internally. Discomfort aside, going by scooter would give him time to mentally prepare himself for social stress of the party. But Monica was pulling off his coat and taking his hand, examining his bandaged knuckles. “Dev, you’ve hurt yourself.”

 

“It’s only a scrape. Thursday called me back on duty after we returned from Shakespeare’s. had to take care of something.” Feeling her go tense, he said, “I wasn’t hurt, truly, and Thursday insisted I take the rest of the night off.”

 

Monica raised an eyebrow. “All right. So your fist bumped into somebody’s chin?”

 

“Excellent guess.” Endeavour grinned. “Precisely what happened.”

 

Surprised, she laughed. “And?”

 

“Can’t say more than that yet.” Endeavour changed the subject. “Why’d you ask me here so early, if your friends are coming at six forty-five?”

 

She smiled and led him over to her compact hi-fi set, a combination record player and radio. She pulled a 45rpm single song record from a colorful sleeve; the label read _Eastern Standard Time._  

“Sometimes it’s hard to meet new people, go into new situations,” Monica explained. “To make things easier I wanted to introduce you to some of the music and dancing you can expect tonight.”  Facing him, she held out her hands as a rhythmic instrumental began to play.

Endeavour listened, picking out a sweet, lilting melody and a strange, shifting rhythm – not quite shuffling, not quite ragged, quite unfamiliar. There was a horn section; the saxophonist played a wistful solo, improvising on the melody.

“How do you dance to this? You may need to leave me at home.” Seeing her crestfallen face, he quickly added, “It’s not the party, or the people at it, Monica. I don’t dance much. Maybe a little waltz and the fox trot.”

Monica reached across the gap between them and moved their bodies into partner position. “There’s no need to be nervous; I can teach you. When was the last time you danced?”

“Last year…holiday party. Luckily it was a slow pop song, but too modern for my taste. I held her hand and moved my feet for three painful minutes.”

“Dev, this is a slow one. 4/4 time. Lead me in the fox trot if that’s comfortable.”

Uneasily, he did. Monica kept a slight rigidity to her arms as required in partner dancing where one person led and the other followed. She swayed a little, not so much that Dev lost control, but enough to help him locate and follow the beat. Growing confident, he raised his arm and she did a slow turn, stepping gracefully and slowly in time. “Ooh, very nice, Dev!”

Like so many popular songs for the commercial market, _Eastern Standard Time_ faded out with no real ending. This was just one of the reasons that Endeavour disliked popular music. However, the song had been pleasant enough in its own, way, both sweet and melancholy.

“What’s this called?”

“Ska. It can be slow or fast. Other types of Jamaican music are called rocksteady or bluebeat – those are the newest sounds. The selecter – that’s what we call the disc jockey at parties – will probably play all three types, along with some pop numbers.” Monica said. “I don’t want you to feel obliged to dance. Nice thing about dancing at this party, I won’t require a partner.”

“And what am I to do while you’re on the dance floor?”

“Drink lager. Word is that Shakespeare’s got some Red Stripe in.”  She giggled. “You’ll see. Now let’s try something a bit faster. No partner position for this one.”

Endeavour squinted quizzically as the next song began. An odd sound of someone shaking something, then two notes blasted by a horn section, and an unusual sort of drum roll. Smiling, Monica began moving her shoulders and hips. “This is an old song, but it’s one of my favorites!”

 _Bang!_ a man’s voice said, and the band began a fast, driving rhythm even more foreign to his ears than the previous one. The horn section took over with a vaguely martial-sounding melody. The man speaking – he wasn’t singing, so Endeavour didn’t know what else to call it – punctuated the song with excalmations and sounds. It wasn’t the scat singing one heard in jazz but seemed imrpvised. He realized that the shaking sound at the beginning of the song was actually one the man’s vocal tricks. Motuh agape, Endeavour looked at Monica.

“What on earth?”

“Ska. The song’s called _Guns of Navarone_ ,” she explained, still dancing. “The band is the Skatalites.” She improvised steps as freely and creatively as a jazz singer might improvise sounds. Dev tried to back away, but she grabbed him by the hips. “Follow me.”

Nothing in Dev’s life had ever required him to tilt his hips up and down or side, so he allowed her to lead. “Like that, Dev.  More hips, less head.” Monica smiled encouragingly, moving her shoulders and hips in rocking, simultaneous movements.  

“I didn’t know hips could do this. How _do_ you move your hips and shoulders at the same time?”

“Relax, and let the music lead you naturally.” Bass notes swung the song into a break, and Monica bent her knees, as though lowering her body with the notes.

Morse tried to follow, but his own shoulders and hips moved as though each belonged to different people. “Looks easy when _you_ do it.”

“Oh, like anything else it takes a little practice.  You _do_ have the right idea.  Slow down, bend your knees, feet close to the floor.” Monica restarted the record.  “Lead from here –“she rested her hands on his hips – “and relax your shoulders. Take your time. Be easy, calm.”

Or _cool_ , to use the slang term for what this sort of dancing looked like.  Morse had never cared about being cool. So many different instructions! Morse took a deep breath and tried again.  This time, Endeavour matched her movements. Her playfulness relaxed him, and soon he was moving with her.  Such a surprising feeling, being so physically close to someone, fully dressed and in harmony.   

 _Braaap!_ An auto horn sounded from outdoors. Monica pushed aside the curtains and waved through the window at someone down on the street. “Patience and Charlie are here in the van! Let’s go down and I’ll introduce you.”

“More preparation before this party?” Morse asked, helping Monica don her coat. “Surely you don’t think I’m a complete social misfit.”

“Of course not. I just thought…” she looked up at him uncertainly.

Morse shrugged on his own coat. “It’s all right. I know you mean well.” At least nobody at the party was likely to go after him with scissors.

Monica still looked worried as she locked her door. Endeavour took her hand and they made their way to the street.

                                                                                                      …

Thanks for taking time to read! Constructive critiques welcome. Again, this story isn’t following Inspector Morse canon particularly closely. Original characters are the intellectual property of Zizi West.

The Skatalites are a real band, and are legendary, with devoted fans around the world.  There are too many wonderful ska and rocksteady bands and artists to squeeze into one chapter, so I only included two of my favorite songs from the era (no, I wasn’t born yet, but enjoy ska anyway).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for taking time to read! Constructive critiques welcome. Again, this story isn’t following Inspector Morse canon particularly closely. Original characters are the intellectual property of Zizi West.  
> The Skatalites are a real band, and are legendary, with devoted fans around the world. There are too many wonderful ska and rocksteady bands and artists to squeeze into one chapter, so I only included two of my favorite songs from the era (no, I wasn’t born yet, but enjoy ska anyway).


	8. Shakespeare’s Birthday

#  _**Stroke**_ , Chapter 8: Shakespeare’s Birthday

An _Endeavour_ fanfiction story by Zizi West / All rights reserved. I don’t own the show’s characters and do not profit monetarily from this…so please, kindly take a moment to write a review.

Warnings: none this chapter aside from impolite language. You’ll find multiple anachronisms among the song recommendations; many were recorded long after 1966 or are remixes. Please think of them as mood setters, and also see the historical note at the end of the chapter.

* * *

 

**_The pavement in front of Endeavour and Monica’s Apartment Building, Evening_ **

_(Suggested soundtrack for this scene: “Yard Broom”, The Skatalites)_

Endeavour knew the rules for personal interaction during arrests (keep things short, clear, and to the point) and interviews with witnesses and persons of interest. Saturday nights with new people, the friends of one’s own…girlfriend?  He hadn’t used that word with Monica or anyone else yet, but she _was_ – quite a different situation entirely.

A stocky, dark-haired young man and a slightly taller woman waited in a pool of light cast by a street lamp. Behind them, a van with JORDAN AND SONS BUTCHER SHOP painted on its side in foot-high letters sat at the curb.   _Our chariot for the evening_ , Morse thought wryly.

“Hello, you two!” Monica called. Endeavour winced at her extroverted greeting. She gave his arm a reassuring squeeze, and they stepped forward together.

“Dev, meet Charles Jordan. You’ll remember my lovely friend Patience from the hospital. This is Endeavour Morse, but, er, he prefers Morse.”

 _I never explicitly told her that about my name_ , Endeavour thought. The butcher’s son greeted him, stepping forward with the extended hand of a typical hail-fellow-well-met personality.

“How d’ye do, Morse? I don’t quite go by my Christian name, either. Charlie.”

A testimonial to the benefits of consuming his own product, Charlie had the muscular physique of a rugby player or heavyweight boxer. His broad shoulders looked like he could easily carry a side of beef on them, if not an entire cow. Guileless and friendly, his red cheeks and clear eyes radiated wholesomeness. Endeavour noticed a tiny crucifix pin gleaming on Charlie’s jacket lapel. _Good Lord, I hope he doesn’t go in for saving souls – mine’s tarnished,_ he thought. Little about his daily life involved dealing with such people; the gently bred members of his choir discreetly kept their religious lights under bushels.

Endeavour matched Charlie’s handshake for firmness and returned the greeting. “Quite well, thanks, and you? It’s good to meet a friend of Monica’s.” Then he turned to the woman beside Charlie. Patience was the same tall, gray-eyed light brunette that had stood by Monica at the hospital on the day of the stabbing, quietly offering moral support to her friend. Now out of uniform, she shone in a blue party frock with silver trim and a white fake fur coat worn over it. Her confident stance made the mass-produced fashion look expensive. “I remember you from the hospital. How are you, Miss?”

Patience had a shrewd, evaluating gaze reminiscent of a police sergeant. Endeavour found her just as unnerving in a social setting as he had at Crawley Hospital. She glanced between Monica and himself, then gave him an assessing head-to-toe sweep. What was she thinking? He imagined her internal dialogue.   _That overcoat’s seen better days but it’s well made – check. Ambitious fellow, frugal, Monica says. He was at Oxford, but made eye contact with my Charlie and treated him as an equal -- check. Aspiring to the upper middle class? Maybe.  But not one of us._

Sometimes it was difficult to tell what women were thinking – that is, when they weren’t being emotional. But --

But Patience only said, “Glad to meet you again in a calmer setting, Mr. Morse,” and smiled politely. “Let’s all get in the van, hey? Charlie’s just had the heating repaired, and it’s quite toasty inside!”

“Yes,” Charlie added, “Mr. Shakespeare set it to rights.”

“Knows everyone, does he? I begin to see why Mr. Shakespeare’s so popular,” Morse replied, helping Monica climb into the remaining passenger seats. Originally built to carry multiple passengers, the van had been reconfigured with shelving and a sort of refrigerated section in back and seating for four in front.  Odd, but probably not illegal, and its motor started up with a low hum that predicted safe, uneventful driving.

Monica’s gloved fingers met Dev’s bare ones in the dark. Their gazes met, and she smiled up at him. _So far, so good_. He exhaled slowly. _Just a few hours_. Relax and let life happen.

Too soon, Monica let go of his fingers when she leaned forward to talk with Patience, who had turned sideways in the front passenger seat. Endeavour wanted to listen, hoping for workplace gossip with new observations or details about the Reynolds stabbing, but good manners required that he fill the silence between Charlie and himself. This was a matey bunch, so he’d better act like a mate.

Endeavour scrambled mentally for a topic of conversation, then said, “You’re lucky, being part of a family business.”

“Aren’t I? One can’t choose his birth, but I give thanks every day for this life. I began helping in the shop after school when I was young. Hard work, as with any worthwhile thing, but steady.” The junior butcher had a friendly, unnerving habit of glancing back at whomever he spoke to while driving. “Tell me, Morse, what’s it like being a policeman?”

“Always interesting,” Endeavour replied, resisting the urge to point forward at the windscreen. “Gives you a chance to pursue justice, even though you can’t solve everyone’s problems.”

“People do have their expectations of distinctive professions,” Charlie said, looking ahead long enough to turn a corner safely. “Butchers: handy with knives, but trustworthy. Policemen: carry nearly as much responsibility as priests.”

It was an odd comparison. “Nearly as much?”

“Priests are tasked with care of the soul,” Charlie replied easily, “and police, with truth, lies, and the common good. Bit of a burden, eh?”

“Rather philosophical,” Endeavour said.

“Philosophy? I leave that to the university set. Churchgoing suits me well enough. Care for football, Morse?”

“Saw the World Cup on a friend’s telly, but –” Dev paused. He only knew the details of sport when it dominated newspapers or the conversations of Thursday and other men. An honest reply about his own love of opera would not lead to common ground with Charlie. “It’s hard to keep up. The job, you know. Full time, working nights, all that. Always enough time for the pub of course.”

Charlie chuckled, and tension eased from Dev’s shoulders. “You’ll want to try the lager Shakespeare’s got in by special order, then. Red Stripe!”

Back in comfortable territory, Endeavour grinned. “Lager? I’ll try that.”

Patience’s words were perfectly clear in the pause following Endeavour’s last sentence. “— not your fault. Come Monday, just tell her that’s not what happened. That gossip is a load of bollocks.”

Endeavour stared at Patience. He’d heard women use bad language before, but they were usually under arrest. Heaving a sigh, Charlie spoke with stern affection. “Please, Patience love. Not in front of company.”

His girlfriend rolled her eyes. “Go on, Charlie Jordan. You know that I only turn the air blue for good reason.”

Monica spoke up. “Much as I appreciate your support, Patience, do use cleaner language! I imagine you’ve already put enough money in the foul words jar at work to buy Head Nurse a summer holiday.”

“I’m gonna ask my patients to teach me foul words in other languages, so I can say even worse things without Head Nurse understanding,” Patience shot back, making Monica laugh.

“Listen to you, laughing! I’ve never heard you curse, Monica.” Endeavour smiled.

“Right, because I don’t.” Her smile faltered. “Can’t, really. People expect less of me, so I have to be twice as good.”

“And that sort of unfairness,” Patience continued, “is what had me saying that in the first place. Ill treatment of coloured nurses. ‘Tisn’t right in modern Britain. So an appropriate reply is bugger--“

 _“_ Patience! _Company_ ,” Charlie said.

Monica interrupted, her voice artificially cheerful. “Let’s leave it for work. It’s Saturday night.” Endeavour wanted to object; he was very interested in what happened in her workplace, considering that Mr. Reynolds’ case might well change from grievous bodily harm to murder.

Monica persisted with the change of subject. “Charlie, _do_ tell us what’s new at the shop.”

The butcher proved an amusing storyteller, describing favorite customers, unusual requests, and the street life outside the shop. His tales nearly diverted Endeavour from work thoughts. Perhaps he or Thursday might approach Charlie as a witness someday, should detective work ever be needed among shopkeepers.

None of Charlie’s descriptions were cruelly mocking; mild sarcasm was as far as he went. Patience occasionally rested a hand on Charlie’s shoulder or shared a smile with him as though they were a married couple. Obviously, they cared for each other, somehow finding balance in their differences.

Endeavour looked at Monica; her lovely profile was alternately lit and outlined by passing streetlights.  He wondered if he could ever be so open with her, allow her sweet to balance his salt. There remained much he did not know about her, simply because he hadn’t asked. Women typically talked more than men, gave secrets away, or so he thought. Monica, he suddenly realized, was rather quiet about some things.

 

##  **_An Anglican Church in a neighborhood more working class than middle, Oxford_ **

_(Suggested music: “Robert F. Kennedy”, The Ethiopians; “Green Onions”, Booker T. and the MGs)_

 

The van slowed, its engine still purring smoothly outside the grey stone walls of a church.

 “Ooh, nice Lambretta, that tricolor one,” Monica murmured, staring at a motor scooter painted in the red, white, and green colors of Italy’s flag. Vespa scooters, and cars of varying vintage and condition also sat parked outside the church.

“Going to paint your Vespa like the Union Jack, for patriotism?” Patience joked. “You could even dress to match.”

“Only if you wear matching kit and ride in the sidecar,” Monica replied.

Endeavour took a deep breath, willing himself the strength to survive as the odd man out on this double date. The four of them stepped indoors, away from the late November chill and into an oasis: light, warmth, color, music. Morse immediately began a visual scan of the room, a policeman’s habit. 

Clearly, Michael Shakespeare had good friends. The church hall was decorated with paper garlands in bright yellow and green. Long tables placed end-to-end were crowded with food and drink. Neatly pressed, mismatched tablecloths covered the first few tables, while other tables were covered with brightly colored pages from comics and the glossy sheets of Sunday newspaper supplements. Several people already danced on the wooden floorboards, moving to lilting melodies and steady rhythms like the music that Monica had shared with Dev earlier.  

 _Who are these people?_ he wondered, as Monica, Patience, and even the solidly Celtic-looking Charlie waved, smiled, and greeted people of varied skin tones, ages, and sizes. Their jobs must make it easy for them to collect so many dissimilar acquaintances. Perhaps Charlie met them as customers. Anyone might find reasons to go to Crawley Hospital.

As they made their way to a table, Endeavour realized that he had never been in any social situation with so many West Indians -- or indeed so many people of any colour different to his own. Even some of the White, presumably English, people at the party looked different. He saw West Indian men of varied ages; a few hippies; a handful of Black women; young White men; and several young White women. A few older White women sat talking with a small group of West Indian women of similar age. He was unsure of the national origin of some people with light brown skin or olive complexions. There were also Black people he couldn’t place. A few conversed in French; others, languages he’d never heard before. Foreign students, or more folk of the former and present British Commonwealth countries[1]? Had he traveled through the door of the church hall into a parallel Britain, a country within a country? _This evening may be more intellectually diverting than I expected_ , he thought.

Several young White men dressed in sharply tailored suits chatted with young West Indian men. Had he arrested any of them before? Not likely. Those suited blokes didn’t look like they were from Oxford, or even this planet. Their clothing was too carefully arranged, too subtly theatrical.

Monica caught him staring.  “Mods,” she said. “Probably came here on those scooters outside.”

“Shouldn’t they be fighting with a bunch of rockers on a beach somewhere?” he replied dryly, referring to the seaside riots of 1964.

Monica made a _pshh_ sound. “Never! Those tailored suits cost too much; they’ve all got jobs awaiting them on Monday; and they know that no proper Jamaican or Trini man would tolerate the disrespect of a fight in a church.” She continued, “Mods love soul and rocksteady music. They’re here to dance and socialize.” Charlie waved them over towards a table and chairs. After Endeavour helped Monica remove her coat, she leaned close and spoke into his ear. “We needn’t stay very late if you feel uncomfortable. We could take a bus back.”

It stung a little, her assumption that he’d be ill at ease. “No, I’m quite all right. This looks like an interesting crowd.” Only the most callous man would miss the anxiety and hope in her expression. “Don’t fret about me. You’ve been looking forward to this, and I do need to get out more. Let me show off my pretty girl.”

Monica’s smile transformed her worried expression so brilliantly that he wanted to congratulate himself. “Nice of you, Dev.” She cupped one side of his face in her hand, stroked his cheekbone, let one finger brush across his lower lip. “Thank you.”

There it was again, the slight thrill he’d felt when she slid her naughty fingers beneath his coat against his shirtfront and pinched him, right on the street. Really, he ought to pull her to him and kiss her, tease her right back –

Charlie said something about beer, lager, and punch for the ladies. Bottled beer was rarely Morse’s first choice, but he should cool down. “Right, let’s.”

No fewer than three people stopped to greet Charlie on their way to and from the drinks table. All of them looked happy to hear that Patience accompanied the butcher; apparently, everyone was friendly with the cursing nurse. Endeavour wondered what he himself had done to deserve her suspicion.

Lager and a motley collection of cups and glasses in hand, the men returned to the table where Monica and Patience were chatting with another couple. Once introduced, Charlie motioned for Endeavour’s bottle of Red Stripe. Unsurprisingly for a butcher, Charlie carried a clasp knife with a few vicious-looking blades – but also a bottle opener. _Good_ , Endeavour thought. _A drinking Christian. Can’t feel the effects of drink soon enough_.

“Ooh, having Red Stripe, Dev?” Monica was delighted to see him try it.

“Share?” Reluctance was written clearly on his face, and she laughed.

“No, it’s all yours, enjoy yourself.” She’d ration herself to a single cup of rum punch tonight, limiting indulgence in drink to make possible indulgence of the body. Seducing a skittish Endeavour would be easier if she weren’t bosky.

 

 _(Song suggestion:_ _“Did You Really Know? -  Prince Fatty Mix, Mungo’s Hi-Fi Prince Fatty vs. Mungo’s Hi Fi, Scotch Bonnet Records)_

Two towering, angled wooden boxes fitted with loudspeakers dominated each side of the church hall stage. A name, _Desmond Murray – Ace Selecter_ was painted in bright colors on the side of each five-foot high speaker. Wires extended to one of the folding tables, where a West Indian man leaned over two turntables. A young English boy, not Caribbean, stood near the DJ with the air of an enthusiastic student seated in the front row of a class. The DJ nodded to the boy and handed him a record jacket and the lad's face brightened. Monica recognized the boy from the shifting group of visitors at Shakespeare’s Garage – his name was David, she thought, last name began with an R. Nice lad.

Easing into his lager, Endeavour relaxed enough for social chat. Music poured from the huge wooden speakers. Black American soul music that had the Mods dancing. Caribbean music, some of it with ragged rhythms, repetitive but appealing melodies, and heavy, thumping bass notes. Everyone, even a few older people, swayed to that. “I’ve seen big loudspeakers connected to tannoy systems in public places and near fun fairs, but nothing quite like that arrangement.”

“In Jamaica they’re used for outdoor parties. People sometimes call them ‘houses of joy’,” Monica explained. “The man in charge of the music is Desmond Murray. He made those speakers himself. Days, he’s a builder, does plumbing too. Nights and weekends, he’s a disc jockey or ‘selecter’, and much in demand.”

“Imagine listening to Beethoven’s Fifth through a pair of _those_ ,” Endeavour said.

“Oh? There’s _your_ Christmas gift sorted.” Monica bumped him with her elbow. “Shall we greet our host?”

Michael Shakespeare accepted their birthday greetings with good humor, praising Monica’s choice of a brightly colored dress in an English November, and expressing mock surprise that Endeavour had shown up. Other party guests clustered around Shakespeare, and Monica was drawn into conversation with a couple of other West Indian hospital workers. Endeavour nodded, half-smiled, and half-listened to other well-wishers, forming questions in his mind until there was a gap between party guests.

 

_(Song suggestion: “Under Arrest – Prince Fatty Mix”, Prince Fatty vs. Mungo’s Hi Fi, Scotch Bonnet Records)_

 

“Mr. Shakespeare, that Jag you said that you worked on recently – any chance that the owner is named Reynolds?” Morse asked casually.

“Yes,” Michael replied. “You know him?”

“Not personally, no. Don’t travel in Jaguar-owning circles” – not _yet_ – “but I do know of him. Takes good care of his car, then?”

“Very! The man owns two. Said his wife sometimes drives the Jag that’s serviced at the dealership. But his car, the one Reynolds _usually_ drives – sometimes with a young bird who _isn’t_ Mrs. Reynolds in the passenger seat – he brings that to me!” The mechanic laughed. “Good fellow, Reynolds. Pays on time, no waiting on cheques clearing.”

 _Cash payments, if that what Shakespeare’s hinting at, wouldn’t show up in the household books. What else does he pay for in cash? Did Mrs. Reynolds have questions about the missing money or the girls?_ Morse suppressed a satisfied smile, imagining the pieces falling into place. Chatty folk were a gift to investigations. Perhaps Shakespeare was proud of having at least one wealthy client, and wanted to brag a little. It was unethical to question him further without making it clear that he did so for an investigation, so Morse decided to change the subject.

Michael Shakespeare spoke before he could. “Haven’t seen Reynolds lately. Pity – tradesmen need steady customers.” He shrugged.

Honestly, Morse _knew_ that he should tell him why, and perhaps leave out the stabbing. Saturday night aside, party aside, it was the right thing to do. But –

Monica finished a conversation with a couple of young women and looked over, curious. “What are you lads chatting about, then?”

“Oh, cars –” Morse began.

“Jaguars and those what drive ‘em,” Shakespeare said. “Seems he knows one of my customers.” Monica raised an eyebrow as she looked at Morse.

“Dev?” she said in an apprehensive tone.

The sounds coming from the stage changed; Ace Selecter Desmond held a microphone in one hand and was speaking, urging partygoers closer to the stage. As an instrumental song played, he began a sort of rhythmic talking in an accented blend of English and patois, telling a loosely structured humorous story, occasionally calling out people in the crowd by name or what they wore.

Momentarily distracted, Monica turned to the stage. “Oh, I like it when the selecter chats!”

 _Chat?_ Morse was going to ask, but decided to watch and listen instead.

_Yeah it’s Shakespeare’s birthday here in-a Oxford_

_We all get together for to bring him the good word_

_Happy Birthday! Say de Black and White_

_Young and old gonna party together all night_

_We inna de church so we gonna act right_

_But have yerself a little drink_

_For de blessed Savior drank wine_

_Happy Birthday!_

The crowd shouted, “Happy Birthday!” in tune with the selecter and applauded. Ace Selecter Desmond bowed and returned to the turntables, fading out the instrumental to play more dance music.

( _Song suggestion: “Shotgun”, Junior Walker and the All-Stars_ )

Shakespeare smiled and raised his glass, nodding at the selecter. “Get your lad dancing, Monica. We have one of the best selecters in England here tonight.”

“I’ll try to talk him into it, Shakespeare.” Monica clasped Morse’s arm. “Sorry to interrupt, but may I borrow him a moment?” Her grip tightened. “Or were you in the middle of something?”

* * *

 

 **NEXT CHAPTER:** Who’s invited to this party, anyway, and what is _that_ person doing here? Also, Endeavour is reminded that dancing has its benefits.

Thanks for reading, and apologies for the delay in updates! It’s been a tough year.

 **NOTE:** I have taken a huge amount of historical license with the availability of Red Stripe at the party. The same goes for the DJ's use of chat at the party, as well as the presence of the “houses of joy” speakers, which were used in Jamaica at the time. I once stood between two recreations of these speakers, and felt the bass thumping right in my bones. Both were real parts of the African-Caribbean musical culture in the U.K. However, neither may have been in wide use even as late as 1966.  A more accurate date range: probably the very late 1960s and the 1970s. There’s a wide range of historical and theoretical scholarship on Caribbean music in the islands and abroad; answers may be found there.  Two suggestions: _Ska: the Rhytm of Liberation_ by Heather Augustyn and _Young, Gifted and Black: the Story of Trojan Records_ by Michael de Koningh  & Laurence Cane-Honeysett.

 

[1] The United Kingdom allowed Commonwealth citizens unrestricted entry and residency until the Commonwealth Immigrants act was put into action in 1962.


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